by 


Powerful  New  Novel 

Patrick  Mac  Gill 

BY  ELIA  W.  PEATTIE. 

PATRICK  MAC  GILL  Is  in  an  aus- 
tere mood  in  "  GLENMORAN  " 
[Doi-an.]  He  pictures  the  nar- 
rowness and  superstition  of  aft 
Irish  village,  writing  with  a  certain  sad 
conviction  that  can  come  only  from 
ntimate  knowledge  and  depressing  ex- 
perience. Not  that  the  book  is  pri- 
marily depressing.  It  is  much  too  fine 
a  piece  of  work  for  that.  It  sets  forth 
with  a  grave  beauty  the  characters  of 
the  little  scandal  monging,  priest  dom- 
inated, unprogressive  town  and  tells 
the  story  of  what  befell  the  young  na- 
tive of  the  village  whose  talent  en- 
abled him  to  write  of  the  place  and  the 
people  and  whose  cleverness  caused  his 
exile. 

However,  the  reader  is  not  impelled 
to  lament  greatly  the  exile  of  the 
young  writer.  It  is  true  that  he 
grieved  his  mother  and  lost  his  sweet- 
heart, but  as  they  would  in  any  event 
have  found  some  perfectly  legitimate 
cause  for  lamentation  the  fact  that 
Doalty,  the  writer,  provided  it  seems 
not  to  matter  much.  The  sweetheart 
found  a  new  lover;  Maura  The  Rosses 
— mother  of  Doalty — mourned  with  a 
great  mourning;  and  Doalty  is  some- 
where, no  doubt  her*  in  America,  earn- 
ing his  living  with  his  pen.  Or  per- 
haps he  is  Pat  MacGUl  himself. 


GLENMORNAN 

PATRICK   MACGILL 


BY  PATRICK  MAcGILL 

GLENMORNAN 
THE  BROWN  BRETHREN 
THE  RED  HORIZON 
THE  GREAT  PUSH 
THE  RAT-PIT 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


GLENMORNAN 


BY 

PATRICK 
MAcGILL 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BROWN  BRETHREN,' 
"THE  RAT-PIT,"  ETC. 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  OWN  PEOPLE 


2060714 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  MAURA  THE  ROSSES »      .      .  n 

II  GLENMORNAN                     ,      „ 28 

HI  DOALTY  GALLAGHER    .      ...      .      .      ,      .  49 

IV  IN  His  MOTHER'S  HOUSE    .......  77 

V  OINEY  LEAHY .,      .  97 

VI  THE  FAIR  OF  GREENANORE 135 

VII  SHEILA  DERMOD    .......        .      .  167 

VIII  BREED  DERMOD    .       .      .-*  .      •      •      •      .      .  185 

EX  THE  MOWING £ .      .213 

X  THE  WAKE 242 

XI  THE  FLOOD 265 

XII  READ  FROM  THE  ALTAR 285 

XIII  A  LETTER  FROM  HOME  ,      .      .    '  •  f-'.  $'•   ,  .      •  3" 


GLENMORNAN 


GLENMORNAN 

CHAPTER  I 

MAURA   THE   ROSSES 

I've  learned  the  tale  of  the  crooning  waves 

And  the  lore  of  the  honey-bee, 
The  Mermaid's  Song  in  the  lonely  caves 

Of  Rosses  by  the  sea. 
As  I'm  never  let  out  to  the  dance  or  wake, 

Because  I'm  a  gasair  small, 
I  just  stay  in  the  house  for  my  mother's  sake 

And  never  get  tired  at  all. 

Ah !  many  a  song  she  has  sung  to  me 

And  many  a  song  she  knew, 
And  many  a  story  there  used  to  be, 

And  mother's  tales  are  true; 
So  I  know  the  tale  of  the  crooning  waves 

And  the  lore  of  the  honey  bee, 
And  the  Mermaid's  Song  in  the  lonely  caves 

Of  Rosses  by  the  sea. 

— The  Faith  Of  A  Child. 


MAURA  THE  ROSSES  was  a  widow  with 
ten   children.     The  oldest  of  her  chil- 
dren  was   twenty-three   years    of   age, 
the    youngest    five.     She    was    the    owner   of    a 
farm  of  land,  fifty  acres  hill  and  holm,  in  the 
ii 


12  Glenmornan 

townland  of  Stranameera,  which  is  saying  some- 
thing, for  Stranameera  has  in  pasture  and  peat 
no  land  in  the  barony  to  equal  it.  The  townland 
is  situated  in  the  big  Glen  of  Glenmornan,  its 
back  against  the  hills  and  its  toes  stuck  in  the 
river  Owenawadda.  Glenmornan  is  in  the  parish 
of  Greenanore,  or,  as  it  was  once  called,  the  Bar- 
ony of  Burrach.  The  oldest  inhabitants  of  the 
Glen  still  call  themselves  the  people  of  Burrach, 
the  middle-aged  speak  of  themselves,  when 
abroad,  as  "the  ones  from  Greenanore,  it  that  used 
to  be  the  Barony  of  Burrach  in  the  old  times," 
but  the  young  generation  of  boys  who  smoke  cig- 
arettes and  girls  who  wear  hats,  are  content  to  call 
themselves  the  Greenanore  people. 

Maura  The  Rosses'  maiden  name  was  Sweeney, 
her  marriage  name  Gallagher.  She  came  from 
The  Rosses.  It  was  there  that  Connel  Gallagher 
met  her  one  night  when  he  was  coming  home  to 
his  own  Glen  from  the  Fair  of  Reemora  where  he 
had  been  selling  wool.  It  was  the  night  of  All  Hal- 
low's Eve  and  a  big  gathering  of  young  people  had 
assembled  at  Maura  Sweeney's  house,  where  all 
manner  of  games  was  in  progress.  This  was  one 
of  the  games : 

,  A  girl  carrying  a  knife  would  go  out  to  the  corn- 
stack  in  the  field,  thirty  yards  away  from  the  house. 
When  she  arrived  there  she  would  stick  the  knife 
in  the  corn  up  to  the  hilt.  Then,  putting  two  fingers 
of  one  hand  over  both  eyes  and  shutting  them,  she 
would  walk  round  the  stack  seven  times.  On  com- 
pleting the  seventh  circle  the  knife  had  to  be  drawn 


Maura  the  Rosses  13 

out  and  waved  seven  times  round  the  head.  When 
this  had  been  done  the  girl  would  open  her  eyes 
and  they  would  rest  on  the  face  of  her  future  hus- 
band. 

Connel  Gallagher,  on  his  way  home  to  Glenmor- 
nan,  felt  tired  and  hungry.  On  seeing  a  house  near 
the  roadway  lit  up  and  the  door  open,  he  went  across 
the  field  towards  it,  with  the  intention  of  getting  a 
bit  and  sup  to  help  him  on  his  journey.  He  left  the 
road  and  made  for  the  door,  but  on  the  way  he 
passed  a  corn-stack  with  somebody  walking  round 
it.  Connel  stopped  and  looked  at  the  figure.  It 
was  a  girl  with  her  hair  down  her  back  and  wear- 
ing short  petticoats  that  scarcely  reached  lower  than 
her  knees. 

"What's  she  doin'  at  all?"  Connel  asked  himself 
and  at  the  same  moment  he  recollected  that  the 
night  was  Hall'  Eve,  and  he  knew  what  the  girl  was 
doing.  The  same  custom  was  kept  in  Glenmornan. 
With  a  quiet  step  he  went  over  to  the  corn-stack, 
discovered  where  the  knife  was  and  waited  there 
until  the  girl  completed  the  seventh  circuit.  When, 
after  waving  the  knife  round  her  head,  she  opened 
her  eyes,  they  rested  on  Connel  Gallagher. 

The  girl  uttered  a  stifled  cry,  recoiled  a  few? 
paces,  and  coming  to  the  stack  leant  against  it. 
From  there  she  fixed  a  pair  of  large  frightened 
eyes  on  the  spectre  who  had  come  from  nowhere, 
out  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Her  man  to  be!  She  had 
never  seen  him  before  .  .  .  who  was  he?  Maybe 
the  Devil  himself.  .  .  . 

She  sank  down,  but  the  stranger  seized  her  in 


14  Glenmornan 

his  arms  and  pressed  her  tightly  to  him.  Glenmor- 
nan was  never  backward  in  making  love.  .  .  .  The 
girl  felt  very  frightened;  not  an  idea  remained  in 
her  head.  She  could  see  as  in  a  dream  the  door  of 
her  home,  the  dark  forms  inside,  the  lighted  lamp 
on  the  wall,  the  delft  in  rows  on  the  dresser.  .  .  . 
The  stranger  seemed  to  be  crushing  her ;  his  hands 
were  so  big ;  his  eyes  were  looking  through  her ;  his 
moustache  was  resting  on  her  lips  and  his  knee  was 
pressing  against  hers. 

"Gora !  wasn't  I  in  luck's  way !"  said  the  man  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Giway  widye  and  let  me  be,"  said  the  girl,  try- 
ing to  escape.  Now  that  the  man  had  spoken  just 
like  an  ordinary  mortal  she  did  not  feel  afraid.  In- 
deed she  became  curious. 

"Who  widye  be?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  from  the  Barony  iv  Burrach  or  Greenanore 
as  they  call  it,"  said  the  man,  tightening  his  hold  on 
the  girl.  He  might  not  have  such  a  chance  again. 
"But  what  does  it  matter?"  he  said.  "I'm  here 
anyway." 

I  "What  d'ye  mane?"  asked  the  girl.  ?T>on't  ye 
see  that  I'm  beside  me  own  house?" 

The  man  released  his  hold. 

"All  right,  golong  with  ye  inside!"  he  said  with  a 
contemptuous  shake  of  his  head.  "It's  like  the  girls 
down  here  to  be  like  that.  Catch  a  Glenmornan  girl 
putting  up  her  nose  at  a  man  that  she  meets  on  a 
Hair  Eve  night  just  when  she's  out  on  the  look  to 
see  who  she's  goin'  to  marry.  .  .  ." 

"I  wasn't  on  the  look  out  for  a  man,"  said  the 


Maura  the  Rosses  15 

girl,  showing  no  haste  to  get  away,  now  that  she 

was  free. 

"Well,  what  did  ye  come  out  here  for  in  the  dark 

iv  night  if  it  wasn't  on  the  look  out  for  a  man?" 

said  Connel  Gallagher. 

"I  only  came  out  in  fun,"  said  the  girl 
"What  is  yer  name  ?"  asked  the  man. 
"It's  Mary  Sweeney.    And  yours  will  be?" 
"Connel  Gallagher.    I  have  been  down  at  the  fair 

of  Reemora  sellin'  wool,  and  now  that  I'm  on  the 

way  home  and  tired  and  hungry  I'm  on  the  look  for 

a  bit  to  eat.  I  saw  a  light  in  the  house  beyont  there 

and  was  just  goin'  over  to  it  when  I  came  across 

yeself." 

"Then  come  in  now  with  me/'  said  the  girl.  "It's 

our  house,  mine  and  me  own  people's  house  and 

we'll  make  ye  welcome." 


ii 


Connel  Gallagher  went  in  with  the  girl  and  there 
in  the  house  he  met  her  father,  Murtagh  Sweeney, 
the  Fighter.  Connel  had  seen  Murtagh,  a  great  man 
for  using  his  fists,  once  before.  It  was  at  the  fair 
of  Greenanore,  and  on  that  occasion  Murtagh 
cleared  out  the  fair  with  a  stone  in  the  foot  of  a 
woman's  stocking.  Sweeney  was  a  tall,  well-set 
man  of  great  physical  strength,  with  shoulders  as 
broad  as  a  half  door  and  legs  as  sturdy  as  stakes 
in  a  byre.  When  he  was  drunk  nearly  everybody 
was  afraid  of  him  and  the  pick  of  men  were  loth  to 


16  Glenmornan 

take  him  up  single-handed  in  a  fight.  There  was  at 
that  time  a  long-standing  feud  between  the  people 
of  Rosses  and  the  people  of  Greenanore  and  one 
parish  was  jealous  of  another.  No  harvest  fair  was 
worthy  of  note  that  had  not  settled  a  row  between 
the  Rosses  people  and  the  people  of  Greenanore. 
But  no  sooner  was  one  dispute  settled  than  another 
begun  and  the  more  blood  shed  the  more  compli- 
cated became  the  quarrel.  Murtagh  Sweeney  al- 
ways led  the  Rosses  party  and  a  Glenmornan  man 
named  Oiney  Leahy  always  was  at  the  head  of  the 
Burrach  people.  On  one  harvest  fair  Oiney  fought 
Murtagh,  both  men  using  the  ashplant  in  the  quar- 
rel, and  Murtagh  got  beaten.  After  that  the  quar- 
rels died  down,  but  the  hate  still  lingered.  Mur- 
tagh Sweeney  did  not  like  the  Greenanore  people. 

He  had  no  great  handshake  for  Connel  Galla- 
gher when  he  went  in  with  Mary,  but  for  all  that 
he  made  him  as  welcome  as  occasion  permitted  and 
hospitality  demanded.  He  gave  Connel  a  bit  and 
sup  and  a  taste  of  duty-free  whiskey  and  let  him 
go  in  peace.  Connel  went  home,  but  his  heart  was 
not  as  easy  as  it  might  be.  Mary  Sweeney  was  a 
comely  girl  and  Connel  thought  that  she  would  be  a 
worthy  wife  for  him.  His  mother  had  just  died 
and  he  was  all  alone  on  his  farm,  a  well-stocked 
holding  that  any  girl  might  be  glad  to  come  into. 

A  month  later  he  called  at  Murtagh  Sweeney's 
house  again,  a  bottle  of  whiskey  in  his  pocket  and 
a  next  door  neighbour  on  his  right  hand.  He  came 
to  ask  Mary  to  be  his  wife.  Murtagh  would  not 
hear  of  the  match.  A  daughter  of  his  marrying  a 


Maura  the  Rosses  17 

man  from  Greenanore!  He  would  see  her  cold 
dead  at  his  feet  before  he  would  sanction  such  a 
marriage ! 

But  Mary  thought  otherwise  and  youth  laughs 
at  age.  A  fortnight  afterwards  Connel  and  Mary 
were  married,  and  Murtagh  did  not  come  to  the 
wedding.  The  girl  was  cut  off  from  the  decent  peo- 
ple of  Rosses  for  evermore. 

Afterwards,  despite  the  young  people's  assertion 
that  they  were  getting  far  and  away  superior  to  the 
old  silly  Hallowe'en  customs,  the  growing  girls  of 
the  Rosses  placed  a  knife  in  the  cornstack  every 
Hall'  Eve  night  and  walked  round  the  stack  seven 
times  with  their  eyes  shut. 


in 


Married  life  had  its  troubles,  even  in  Glenmor- 
nan.  Children  came  to  Connel  Gallagher  and 
Maura  The  Rosses.  As  the  children  increased  in 
number,  the  live  stock  on  the  farm  diminished  and 
naked  poverty  held  control  over  the  home.  Life 
became  a  hard  struggle  for  the  man  and  wife. 
One  year  out  of  every  three  the  crops  went  bad, 
potatoes  were  stricken  by  the  blight,  and  the  corn 
rotted  in  the  swathes.  When  the  weather  became 
wet,  the  hay  was  carried  away  by  the  floods,  and 
the  turf  lay  useless  on  the  spread-fields.  There 
was  no  fire  in  the  house  and  no  food  on  the  table. 
.Connel  would  then  look  at  his  children  and  turn 


!8  Glenmornan 

to  his  wife.  "It's  a  hard  life  the  poor  has,"  he 
would  say.  "But  wait  till  the  weans  grow  up  I" 

"It  will  be  a  long  time  that,  yet,"  his  wife  would 
answer.  "But  this  was  how  it  was  meant  to  be  and 
God  is  good !"  she  would  add. 

Connel  was  a  good,  hard-working  man.  He  got 
tip  from  his  bed  at  five  every  morning  and  went  up 
to  the  hill  for  a  creel  of  turf,  travelling  bare-footed 
to  save  shoe  leather.  When  he  came  back  he  had 
his  breakfast.  The  meal  consisted  of  cold  potatoes 
(if  the  potatoes  were  a  good  crop)  or  Indian  meal 
stirabout  and  buttermilk,  followed  by  a  bowl  of  tea 
and  a  slice  of  Indian  meal  bread.  Dinner  consisted 
of  potatoes  and  milk  and  on  Sundays  the  fare  was 
increased  by  a  slice  of  bacon.  There  was  a  drop  of 
tea  for  the  afternoon  and  supper  consisted  of  In- 
dian meal  stirabout  and  milk.  Connel  worked  from 
early  morning  to  late  night  and  got  poorer  every 
day.  Eight  pounds  a  year  had  to  be  paid  in  rent  to 
the  landlord,  a  great  gentleman  who  never  set  foot 
in  Glenmornan.  He  lived  abroad,  out  in  the  world 
somewhere  and  was  very  rich.  According  to  the 
Glen  people  he  had  a  great  room  in  his  house  and  it 
was  full  of  nothing  but  gold.  Connel  Gallagher 
kept  adding  eight  pounds  yearly  to  the  landlord's 
stock  of  gold  and  Connel  got  very  poor,  which  is  the 
way  of  the  world. 

His  eldest  son  was  a  boy  named  Doalty,  a  scholar 
who  was  very  fond  of  the  learning.  This  boy  went 
to  school  and  was  a  most  intelligent  lad.  When  he 
left  school,  he  worked  on  the  farm,  then  went  out 
into  the  world.  At  eighteen  he  found  himself  in 


Maura  the  Rosses  19 

London,  labouring  on  the  wharves.  When  there  he 
wrote  articles  for  the  press  and  was  eventually 
taken  on  the  staff  of  a  daily  paper.  He  sent  a  great 
amount  of  money  home  and  his  parents  were  very 
pleased. 

"I  knew  Doalty  would  be  a  good  boy,"  said  the 
mother.  "But  it's  a  pity  that  we  couldn't  make 
him  a  priest  when  he  was  here  with  ourselves.  But 
we  hadn't  enough  money  to  put  him  through." 

When  Doalty  was  twenty-three  a  number  of  his 
younger  brothers  and  sisters  were  out  pushing  their 
way  in  the  world.  Columb,  next  to  him  in  years, 
was  away  in  America  working  in  a  saloon,  Murtagh 
had  a  job  on  a  Scottish  railway,  ^Crania  and  Eileen 
were  on  service  away  from  home  and  money  was 
pouring  into  the  old  home  in  Stranameera. 

There  were  six  cows  on  the  farm  now  and  the 
hill  was  white  with  sheep.  Maura  The  Rosses,  a 
thrifty  and  sparing  soul,  was  very  pleased  and 
thanked  God  for  the  children  which  He  had  sent 
her. 

"Them's  the  kind  of  weans  to  have,"  she  often 
said.  "Ones  that  never  forget  their  own  people." 


IV 


Connel  Gallagher  died  from  a  very  short  sick- 
ness. One  day  when  he  was  threshing  corn  for  the 
mill  he  suddenly  laid  down  the  flail  on  the  floor  and 
turned  to  his  wife. 


20  Glenmornan 

"A  sickness  has  come  over  me  all  at  once,"  he 
said.  'Til  go  to  bed." 

Maura  put  him  to  bed  in  the  kitchen,  wrapped 
him  up  in  the  blankets  and  gave  him  a  drink  of  hot 
milk.  When  he  had  drunk  the  milk  he  turned  to 
his  wife. 

"Maura,"  he  said,  "where  is  Teague?" 

Teague  was  a  youngster  of  eighteen  and  the  eld- 
est boy  now  at  home. 

"He's  building  up  the  slap  between  us  and  Breed 
Dermod's,"  said  Maura. 

"Let  him  finish  the  work,"  said  Connel.  "Breed's 
cow  is  always  comin'  across  and  eatin'  our  grass. 
But  find  out  where  Eamon  is  and  tell  him  to  run  for 
the  priest." 

"And  the  doctor,  too  ?"  asked  Maura. 

"The  doctor's  no  good  this  tide,"  said  Connel. 
"The  priest  is  enough." 

Maura  went  out  to  look  for  Eamon.  On  the  street ' 
she  saw  Oiney  Leahy's  rooster  and  she  had  never 
seen  it  about  there  before.  It  was  a  bad  sign.  She 
crossed  herself  and  said : 

"It's  the  priest  and  only  the  priest  that  himself  is 
needin'." 

"Run  for  the  priest  and*  tell  him  to  come  at  once," 
she  said  to  Eamon  when  she  found  him.  "Your 
father  has  taken  to  his  bed." 

The  priest  was  a  very  old  man  with  long  white 
hair  and  horned  spectacles.  He  was  not  the  local 
priest,  but  a  man  from  the  next  parish  who  had 
taken  up  the  job  of  the  Greenanore  priest  while  the 
latter  was  away  in  hospital  suffering  from  some 


Maura  the  Rosses  21 

illness.    The  name  of  the  old  man  to  whom  Eamon 

went  was  McGee.  Father  McGee  was  very  fond  of 

fishing  and  had  no  equal  in  the  barony  for  casting 

a  fly. 

,     "Me  father  has  taken  to  his  bed,"  said  Eamon 

when  he  met  the  priest  leaving  home  with  a  fishing 

rod  over  his  shoulder.    "He  wants  you  to  come  and 

see  him." 

,     "Connel  Gallagher  isn't  it,  my  boy?"  said  the 

priest. 

"It  is,  Father,"  said  Eamon. 

"God  keep  him!"  said  Father  McGee,  "and  it 
such  a  day  for  the  fishing  too.  Now,  my  boy,"  he 
continued,  "you  take  this  rod  and  go  back  and  put  it 
against  the  wall  of  my  house  and  don't  keep  foolin' 
about  with  the  hooks,  and  I'll  go  and  see  your  fa- 
ther, good  man  that  he  is." 

Connel  Gallagher  was  dead  with  the  dawn  of 
the  next  day. 

The  offerings  over  him  when  buried  were  £13 
:ios.  6d.,  a  fine  lump  sum  which  showed  that  Connel 
Gallagher,  a  good  neighbourly  man,  friendly  to  all 
and  bounden  to  none,  was  well  liked  in  the  Barony 
of  Burrach.  Murtagh  Sweeney  came  to  the  funeral. 
Everybody  noticed  this,  for  Murtagh  had  never  set 
foot  in  Glenmornan  since  his  daughter  got  married. 
Another  thing  noticed  by  the  people  was  the  well- 
seasoned  ash-plant  which  Murtagh  carried  with 
him.  It  was  said  that  this  ash-plant  was  the  same 
that  he  used  when  fighting  Oiney  Leahy  at  the 
harvest  fair  of  Greenanore. 

Murtagh  threw  down  a  gold  sovereign  on  the 


22  Glenmornan 

coffin  when  offerings  were  taken.  None  of  the  Glen- 
mornan people  ever  paid  as  much  as  that  and  they 
did  not  like  to  see  a  Rosses  man  display  such  mu- 
nificence. 

"It's  pride  that  made  him  do  it,"  they  said,  for 
they  knew  that  Murtagh  Sweeney  was  a  very  poor 
man. 


Maura  The  Rosses,  a  widow  of  forty-two  and 
the  mother  of  a  boy  of  twenty-three,  was  a  woman 
loved  by  her  neighbours.  A  very  hard  worker 
and  a  good  hand  at  driving  a  bargain  all  her  life, 
she  now  set  herself  to  run  the  farm. 

To  her  children  she  was  a  very  wise  woman, 
knowing  everything.  What  stories  she  could  tell! 
Sitting  by  the  turf -fire  at  night  she  told  tales  of  Fin 
McCool,  Deirdree  of  The  Sorrows,  The  Red 
Headed  Man  and  Kitty  the  Ashy  Pet.  Kitty,  who 
was  once  very  poor,  became  a  princess  and  when 
married  she  always  combed  her  hair  with  a  golden 
comb  and  washed  her  face  in  a  golden  basin.  Maura 
spoke  of  these  people  as  if  she  had  known  them 
personally  and  one  had  to  believe  her  because  her 
words  were  so  simple  and  full  of  conviction. 

When  the  children  went  to  school  and  learned 
poetry  they  would  recite  it  in  a  sing-song  voice  over 
the  fire  at  night.  The  mother  would  listen  and  after 
a  while  she  would  say,  "It's  nice  to  know  poetry  be 
heart,  but  it's  better  to  know  your  prayers/' 

She  made  a  point  of  not  favouring  any  one  par- 


Maura  the  Rosses  23 

ticular  child,  which  was  very  sensible,  seeing  that 
she  was  the  mother  of  ten.  Besides,  she  knew  that 
it  was  a  sin  to  love  one  child  more  than  another. 

Sometimes  when  a  neighbour  died  her  children 
would  ask  her  if  he  had  gone  to  heaven.  If  she 
liked  the  man  she  would  answer,  "Of  course  he's 
gone  to  heaven,  being  such  a  good  man."  But  if 
she  did  not  like  him  she  would  modify  her  answer 
and  say,  "TTC  may  have  gone  there  for  God  is  good !" 
If  she  spoke  of  a  dead  man  in  that  way  the  children 
knew  that  his  soul  had  gone  to  hell. 

The  good  woman  had  no  time  to  exert  any  con- 
tinuous care  over  the  children.  At  a  certain  age 
they  were  sent  to  school,  their  books  in  a  satchel 
and  two  turf  under  their  arms.  There  they  learned 
their  Catechism  and  could  answer  any  question  in 
the  book,  but  seldom  knew  what  the  answers  meant. 
Mere  parrots,  they  could  reel  off  the  Three  Theo- 
logical Virtues,  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  The  Nine 
Ways  In  Which  One  Could  Be  Guilty  Of  Another 
Person's  Sins,  in  a  high  pitched  sing-song  voice. 
The  girls  at  the  school  preferred  to  answer  their 
Catechism  in  unison,  the  whole  class  swaying  from 
side  to  side  as  they  chanted.  Now  and  again  when 
stopped  in  their  swing  they  would  forget  every  word 
of  the  answer  and  find  themselves  in  a  fix  similar 
to  that  of  dancers  in  a  six  hand  reel  when  the  fiddle 
strings  break. 


24  Glenmornan 


VI 

The  children  of  Maura  The  Rosses  learned  their 
Catechism  without  understanding  it.  One  fact 
could  not  be  gainsaid,  however.  They  could  an- 
swer any  question  in  the  book.  When  this  stage 
was  reached  they  were  confirmed  in  their  faith. 
They  knew  all  about  it  then,  its  tenets  were  made 
manifest  to  their  little  souls  and  they  had  found 
them  worthy.  Their  belief  in  the  faith  being  strong, 
they  were  confirmed  and  ordered  to  take  an  oath, 
promising  to  abstain  from  intoxicating  liquors  un- 
til they  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one.  And  in  this 
way  the  children  of  Maura  The  Rosses  were 
brought  up  in  the  love  and  fear  of  God.  If  they 
went  wrong  after  leaving  their  home  it  was  surely 
due  to  no  fault  of  the  good  woman. 

Maura  was  very  devout  and  not  in  the  least  emo- 
tional; but  she  believed  in  fortune-telling,  charms, 
omens,  ghosts  and  fairies.  To  her  there  were  no 
kind  fairies,  though  she  always  spoke  of  them  as 
good  people  or  gentle  folk,  styling  them  "gentle"  or 
"good"  merely  to  placate  them.  When  cows  calved 
before  their  season  or  went  dry  before  their  time, 
when  they  fell  sick  with  shot  or  staggers,  the  mooril 
or  the  lifting,  Maura  ascribed  all  these  ailments  and 
ills  to  the  fairies.  Was  it  not  evident  that  the  good 
people  were  tormenting  the  cattle  when  the  beasts 
ran  wild  from  the  pastures  in  the  hot  noon  of  sum- 
mer and  galloped  into  the  river  and  stood  belly  deep 
in  the  stream?  The  woman  knew  that  all  this  mad- 


Maura  the  Rosses  25 

ness  was  due  to  the  fairies.  The  brute  beasts  were 
aware  of  this  as  well,  and  also  knew  that  fairies 
cannot  touch  running  water.  That  was  their  reason 
for  rushing  into  the  Owenawadda.  After  churning 
milk  the  good  woman  placed  a  pat  of  butter  over  the 
door  for  the  good  people.  When  this  was  melted 
by  the  sun,  or  washed  down  by  the  rain,  she  knew 
that  the  fairies  had  found  it  to  their  liking  and  taken 
it  away. 

Maura  did  not  like  red-haired  women  and  knew 
that  if  she  met  a  red-haired  woman  on  the  way  to 
market  the  day  would  be  bad  for  a  bargain.  She 
would  not  go  outside  the  door  of  her  house  on  All 
Souls'  Eve,  for  she  did  not  want  to  see  the  dead 
passing  by.  She  knew  that  Eamon  the  Drover's 
people,  next  door  neighbours  but  one  to  her  they 
were,  always  drank  seven  drops  of  blood  from  a 
black  cat  on  the  day  they  were  born.  This  made 
them  very  fierce  and  ill-tempered  for  the  rest  of 
their  lives.  This  family  had  the  evil  eye,  so  also  had 
two  other  families  in  Glenmornan.  If  they  looked 
on  your  stock  it  would  never  thrive. 

She  also  knew  that  Hudy  Heilagh  had  read 
Harry  Stattle  *  and  was  full  of  black  magic  and 
legerdemain  tricks.  One  word  from  you  that  did 
not  please  him  and  in  the  shake  of  an  eyelash  he 
could  bring  the  sea  up  to  your  house  and  drown 
every  living  soul  inside.  Hudy  was  sib  to  the  Gal- 
laghers and  in  his  young  days  he  was  a  wild  fellow 
for  the  girls. 

Maura  was  very  kindly  and  never  let  a  beggar 

*  Aristotle. 


26  Glenmornan 

go  past  her  door  without  a  bite  and  sup.  When  the 
cattle  of  the  people  near  her  went  dry  she  gave 
them  part  from  her  own  churning,  but  if  she  lacked 
milk  herself  she  would  not  take  any  from  a  soul. 
"Our  people  never  took  charity,"  she  would  say, 
"and  thank  God  they  never  will." 

She  seldom  left  her  own  house,  but  now  and  again 
with  a  stocking  and  knit-needles  in  her  hand,  she 
would  go  out,  look  over  the  hedge  that  circled  the 
house  and  take  stock  of  all  that  was  happening  in 
the  Glen.  As  she  watched  she  would  pass  a  running 
commentary  on  the  doings  of  her  neighbours.  She 
knew  that  the  town  land  was  divided  amongst  thir- 
teen families  and  her  family  could  marry  into  three 
of  these  who  had  acres  and  cows'  grass  equal  to 
her  own. 


VII 


On  the  June  of  1913  Maura  The  Rosses  got  a 
letter  from  Doalty.  She  was  standing  out  by  the 
hedge  when  she  received  it.  She  put  down  her 
knitting  on  a  stone  and  read  the  letter.  Then  she 
called  to  Norah,  to  Teague  and  to  little  Hughie,  a 
boy  of  five,  her  youngest  child.  "Go  down  to 
Greenanore,"  she  said  to  Norah.  "Get  a  poke  iv 
flour,  a  bag  iv  meal,  a  stone  iv  currants  and  raisins, 
a  side  iv  bacon  and  a  bottle  iv  whisky." 

She  said  to  Teague: 

"Get  the  floor  scrubbed  clean,  whitewash  the 
house  and  pull  that  grass  off  that's  growin'  on  the 
thatch." 


Maura  the  Rosses  27 

"And  you,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "don't  go  about 
dirtyin'  yer  bits  iv  rags,  for  ye'll  need  them  all  next 
week,  when  Doalty's  comin'  home  here  to  his  own 
people." 

That  night  the  Gallaghers  sat  up  very  late  pre- 
paring the  house  for  the  returning  boy.  In  the 
morning  a  stocking,  a  clue  of  yarn  and  knit-needles 
were  discovered  lying  in  the  gutter  outside  the 
door. 

"To  think  that  I  forgot  to  put  that  by  yester- 
day !"  said  Maura  The  Rosses  as  she  looked  at  her 
ruined  knitting. 


CHAPTER  II 

GLEN  MORN  AN 

The  Gombeen  Man,  scraggy  and  thin, 

Is  always  getting  the  money  in, 

Round  his  throat  is  a  red  cravat, 

Sixpence  at  most  he  paid  for  that; 

Boots  in  which  Decency  wouldn't  stand, 

He  must  have  got  them  second  hand; 

Face  as  dry  as  a  seasoned  fish, 

Head  as  bald  as  a  wooden  dish — 

Silent  and  sleekit  as  a  trout, 

With  the  hair  on  his  chin  all  sprouting  out 

Boast  of  belly  and  bare  of  back, 

A  fellow  that  never  paid  his  whack, 

He  has  rolls  of  notes  and  bags  of  gold, 

As  much  as  a  wooden  chest  can  hold — 

This  he  has  and  nobody  knows 

What  will  be  done  with  it  when  he  goes — 

But  where  will  he  go  when  he  leaves  it?    Where? 

Nobody  knows,  or  seems  to  care. 

— The  Gombeen  Man. 


GLENMORNAN  is  a  grand  glen.     The  na- 
tives say  it's  one  of  the  finest  in  all  Ire- 
land.   The  glen  is  ringed  with  a  line  of 
hills,  some  of  which  rise  to  a  height  of  two  thousand 
feet,  and  none  of  which  are  less  than  seven  hundred. 
The  oldest  rocks  in  Ireland  are  to  be  found  here — 
28 


Glenmornan  29 

granite,  quartzite,  mica  slate  and  limestone.    Look- 
ing from  the  glen  to  the  west  Sliav-a-Tuagh  can 
be  seen,  a  sharp-edged  peak  with  its  feet  in  the  sea  \ 
and  its  head  in  the  stars.     Eastwards  Croagh-an-  ' 
Airgead  stands  aloof,  a  solitary  peak  brooding  over 
its  own  isolation.    Carnaween  to  southwards  looks 
down  in  immense  scorn  on  the  valleys  and  moors 
at  its  feet. 

A  river  and  road  run  through  the  centre  of  the 
valley,  the  road,  dry  and  crooked,  a  good  one  for 
travel,  and  the  river,  unruly  in  flood  time,  a  bad 
one  for  the  hay  in  the  bottom  lands.  Sometimes  in 
wet  weather,  a  great  amount  of  low-lying  hay  in 
the  glen  is  carried  away  by  the  floods  when  the  river 
rises  over  its  banks  and  covers  the  fields.  In  addi- 
tion to  this  the  streams,  coming  from  the  hills, 
sweep  the  upper  lands,  carrying  the  corn  and  pota- 
toes down  with  them.  The  peasantry  fear  the  floods. 

The  streams  falling  from  the  hills  have  cut  deep 
gullies  in  the  braes,  and  these  gullies — "awlths" 
they  are  called — are  thick  with  birch,  holly  and 
hazel  bushes.  Trees  are  very  scarce ;  the  country  is 
now  almost  denuded  of  them.  This  has  been  due 
to  wet  seasons  when  few  turf  were  saved  and  when 
wood  had  to  be  used  for  firing. 

On  the  eastern  corner  of  the  glen  where  the  hill 
rises  with  a  gradual  incline,  the  floods  do  very  little 
harm.  Up  there  dwell  the  mountainy  people,  big 
limbed,  hairy  men  and  strong  swarthy  women  who 
seldom  wear  boots.  The  mountainy  man  can  be 
picked  out  at  any  fair  or  market.  He  is  a  sullen 
and  suspicious  creature  who  walks  with  a  hop  on 


3O  Glenmornan 

the  most  level  path  and  has  his  eyes  always  fixed 
on  the  ground  under  his  feet.  This  is  due  to  his 
life  on  the  high  levels  of  the  glen,  where  in  his  daily 
work  he  has  to  hop  from  stone  to  stone  over  the 
marshy  lands.  He  lives  in  a  wretched  house,  keeps 
his  cattle  under  his  own  roof,  is  miserably  fed,  and 
instead  of  boots  wears  thick  woollen  socks,  called 
mairteens. 

The  people  further  down  the  glen  are  better  set 
up,  the  young  men  are  tall  and  bold,  the  young  girls 
good-humoured  and  handsome.  They  never  have 
any  intercourse  with  the  mountainy  people,  whom 
they  do  not  consider  fit  society  and  whom  they  will 
not  allow  right  of  entry  to  their  dances  and  airnalls 
(gatherings).  With  the  people  down  the  glen 
"mountainy"  is  a  term  of  reproach:  an  awkward 
and  ignorant  person  is  termed  mountainy.  "You're 
a  mountainy  man  and  as  thick  as  mud,"  is  a  saying 
of  theirs. 

Up  the  glen  the  people  seldom  read  anything,  hav- 
ing neither  the  time,  inclination  or  education.  Down 
the  glen  they  like  to  hear  the  news  of  the  world  out- 
side the  range  of  the  hills  and  read  whenever  they 
have  the  opportunity.  They  are  very  curious  and 
their  nature  hankers  after  knowledge.  Superstition 
gives  an  imperious  explanation  to  everything  which 
general  ignorance  cannot  solve,  and  religion  is  ever 
at  hand  to  supply  the  why  and  wherefore  of  things. 
To  them  any  newspaper  is  always  "the  paper,"  and 
they  are  indifferent  to  the  edition  or  date  of  print- 
ing. Little  boys  going  to  the  neighbouring  shops 
with  three  eggs  in  a  handkerchief  are  generally  told 


Glenmornan  31 

to  get  the  goods  purchased,  wrapped  in  "the  paper." 
In  this  manner  Glenmornan  keeps  in  touch  with  the 
news  of  the  world. 

The  distance  in  time  and  space  from  the  events 
described  does  in  no  way  diminish  the  readers'  in- 
terest in  the  stories.  That  they  are  so  far  removed 
from  the  world  in  which  such  things  occur,  gives  the 
people  a  certain  amount  of  comfort.  "Strange 
things  are  always  takin'  place  in  foreign  parts," 
they  say  to  one  another.  "It's  good  to  be  here  where 
things  like  that  never  take  place." 

But  more  intelligent  and  more  progressive  than 
any  of  the  glen  folk  are  the  residents  of  the  village 
of  Greenanore.  These  people  have  got  the  quality 
toss  with  them  and  have  the  most  genteel  manners. 
The  latest  English  music-hall  songs  are  all  the  rage 
in  the  village.  Little  Gwendoline  Quigley  (what  a 
quality  name  Gwendoline!),  daughter  of  the  biggest 
publican,  can  sing  two  songs  in  French,  which  is 
more  than  any  girl  in  the  lower  end  of  the  glen  can 
do.  Gwendoline,  of  course,  will  not  associate  with 
any  of  the  glen  people,  who  in  her  eyes  are  the  low- 
est of  the  low  and  just  the  merest  fraction  removed 
from  the  mountainy  people.  Neither  will  Gwen- 
doline sing  an  old  Cumallye  song  like  "Nell  Fla- 
herty's Drake"  or  "Pat  O'Donnell."  But  this  is 
quite  right  from  a  quality  standpoint,  for  the  village 
cannot  descend  to  the  vulgar  level  of  the  glen. 
Gwendoline's  father,  old  Pat  Quigley,  is  a  gombeen 
man  full  of  money  and  land.  He  has  a  club  foot  and 
turns  on  his  heel  when  walking.  His  nickname  is 
"Heel-ball." 


32  (jlenmornan 


ii 


There  are  many  families  in  the  glen  and  each 
family  has  its  own  little  farm,  which  rises  in  a  nar- 
row strip  from  the  river  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  The 
arable  land  is  small  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of 
the  glen  and  is  not  in  all  places  of  the  best  quality. 
The  meadow  land  which  fringes  the  river  is  sel- 
dom dug.  The  ground  of  the  braes  is  full  of  stones, 
both  upon  and  under  the  surface,  and  it  also 
abounds  in  whin  bushes,  which  have  to  be  taken  up 
by  the  roots  before  the  land  can  be  cultivated.  Some 
of  the  glen  farms  stand  practically  on  end,  and 
these  have  to  be  dug  uphill,  a  most  difficult  job.  It 
is  of  course  easier  to  dig  downhill,  but  if  this  is  done 
the  clay  at  top  will  be  gradually  carried  to  the  bot- 
tom. But  despite  the  husbandman's  care,  the  clay, 
continually  borne  down  by  the  rains,  collects  in 
heaps  at  the  bottom  of  the  braes.  When  this  rises 
to  a  certain  height  it  has  to  be  carried  up  again. 
Therefore  cultivation  is  arduous  and  expensive  in 
Glenmornan  and  requires  no  end  of  energy  and  la- 
bour. But  the  people  never  lose  heart  at  the  tilling 
of  the  soil.  On  it,  the  noblest  labour  of  all,  depends 
their  daily  bread. 

The  people  live  frugally  and  are  for  the  most 
part  very  poor.  Most  families  have  sufficient  land 
to  keep  two  cows  and  some  can  keep  more.  A 
household  is  judged  by  its  stock,  and  a  family  with 
four  cows'  grass  to  its  name,  will  not  marry  into 
a  family  which  can  only  boast  of  three  cattle. 


Glenmornan  33 

There  are  three  Protestant  families  in  the  glen, 
but  religious  rancour  is  not  known.  The  class  dif- 
ferences are  more  pronounced  than  the  religious 
differences.  The  Quigleys,  with  one  of  their  fam- 
ily a  priest  and  another  a  nun,  hold  themselves  as 
much  aloof  from  the  poor  Catholics  as  from  the 
poor  Protestants. 

A  Glenmornan  house  is  generally  a  one-storeyed 
building  with  a  flagged  floor  and  a  thatched  roof. 
Only  three  or  four  houses  in  the  place  are  slated. 
The  roof  beams  of  a  house  are  generally  of  black 
oak  which  has  been  dug  from  the  bogs.  The  prin- 
cipal room  of  a  house  is  the  kitchen,  a  large  and 
spacious  apartment  where  the  household  assemble 
for  meals  and  where  all  the  family  foregather  when 
the  hours  of  outdoor  work  come  to  an  end.  There 
is  seldom  more  than  two  rooms  in  a  house  and  both 
serve  as  sleeping  chambers.  The  byre  is  attached 
to  the  house,  but  ducks  and  pigs  are  kept  in  a  sep- 
arate building. 

The  food  of  the  people,  for  the  most  part,  con- 
sists of  tea,  bread,  butter,  potatoes  and  porridge. 
This  latter  dish  is  always  called  "porridge"  by  the 
quality  of  Greenanore;  those  who  dwell  in  the  butt- 
end  of  Glenmornan  generally  call  it  "stirabout,"  but 
the  mountainy  people  always  call  it  "brahun-ray." 
The  various  degrees  of  refinement  in  the  barony  can 
be  traced  by  the  names  given  to  this  simple  dish. 

Eating  is  a  very  casual  matter  with  the  glen  peo- 
ple. The  women  generally  eat  standing,  breaking 
off  at  intervals  to  do  some  job  or  another.  The  chil- 
dren squat  on  the  floor  when  eating,  but  the  men. 


34  Glenmornan 

for  the  most  part  sit  round  a  table.  There  is  no 
fixed  hour  for  meals.  The  glen  people  eat  when 
they  are  hungry  if  there  is  food  to  go  round. 

There  are  very  few  amusements  and  very  few 
holidays  in  Glenmornan.  Work  is  always  carried 
on,  Sunday  and  Saturday.  Cows  have  to  be  milked, 
fed  and  tended,  children  have  to  be  cared  for,  dishes 
have  to  be  washed  on  every  day  of  the  week.  The 
labour  of  a  farm  never  comes  to  an  end.  None  but 
the  very  rich  can  observe  a  strict  Sabbath  in  Green- 
anore.  It  is  just  the  same  in  many  other  parts  of 
the  world. 


in 


It  was  Bonfire  Night,  the  Eve  of  the  Feast  of 
the  Nativity  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist,  and  Strana- 
meera,  never  behind  hand  in  its  observance  of  the 
night,  had  its  bonfire  flaring  on  the  hill.  For  weeks 
before  the  townland  people  had  spent  all  their  spare 
time  gathering  in  bundles  of  heather,  sticks  and 
brambles  to  the  pile  of  fuel,  heaped  high  on  the  brae 
behind  the  house  of  Maura  The  Rosses,  which  was 
now  ablaze.  The  whole  townland  was  gathered 
round  the  fire  that  roared  redly  over  a  deep,  sloping 
awlth  filled  with  ash,  birch  and  holly.  Through 
the  awlth  ran  a  brook,  gobbling  like  a  clutch  of 
young  turkeys. 

The  night  was  wonderfully  clear  and  not  a  cloud 
hid  the  glory  of  the  stars.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  glen,  Garnaween  could  be  seen,  a  calm  silent 
peak,  clear  cut  and  dark  against  the  sky.  A  slight 


Glenmornan  35 

breeze  rippled  up  the  brae  and  set  the  birches 
a-quiver.  The  awlth  was  full  of  strange  whispers, 
and  no  wonder,  for  the  place  was  the  home  of  the 
gentle  people.  If  a  cow  strayed  in  there  the  animal 
was  sure  to  be  elf -shot;  sickness  came  to  the  chil- 
dren who  went  to  gather  hazel  nuts  in  the  gentle 
locality,  and  in  the  awlth  was  stored  the  butter 
which  the  fairies  had  stole  from  the  townland  of 
Stranameera.  Whenever  Maura  The  Rosses 
looked  on  the  place  she  crossed  herself  three  times, 
once  on  the  forehead,  once  on  the  lips  and  once  on 
the  breast. 

But  now  that  it  was  Bonfire  Night,  Maura  The 
Rosses,  who  seldom  left  her  house,  was  one  of  the 
first  to  come  to  the  fire.  She  could  be  seen  a  little 
distance  away  from  the  blaze,  sitting  on  a  ditch,  a 
white  cloud  over  her  head  and  dressed  in  a  striped 
blouse,  a  red  woollen  petticoat  and  a  pair  of  heavy 
boots.  She  was  speaking  to  one  of  her  neighbours, 
a  crook-backed,  barefooted  old  woman,  whose  yel- 
low, wrinkled  face  peeped  furtively  out  from  the 
folds  of  a  gosling-grey,  woollen  handkerchief. 

The  woman  was  named  Crania  Coolin.  Crania 
was  a  poor  widow,  skilled  in  the  art  of  midwifery 
and  the  knowledge  of  the  medicinal  properties  of 
various  herbs.  She  knew  that  bog-bine  (marsh 
trefoil)  was  a  remedy  for  heartburn;  that  onions 
would  give  a  person  a  decent  sleep;  that  tansy 
could  destroy  worms  and  that  houseleek  was  a  spe- 
cific for  sore  eyes.  She  also  knew  several  other 
herbs  which  were  certain  remedies  for  toothache, 
.warts,  gravel,  headache  and  various  other  ills. 


36  Glenmornan 

Crania  believed  in  fairies,  but  what  woman  in  Glen- 
mornan does  not  believe  in  the  gentle  people?  In 
addition  to  believing  in  them,  Crania  knew  where 
they  were  hidden,  and  she  generally  placed  the  first 
butter  from  a  churning,  the  first  meal  from  a  mill- 
ing and  the  first  glass  of  whisky  from  a  keg  of 
potheen  on  the  ground  outside  the  haunted  raths. 
The  fairies  always  accepted  Crania's  gifts,  for  on 
the  day  following  that  on  which  the  woman  ten- 
dered butter,  meal  or  whisky  to  them,  not  one  trace 
of  the  gifts  could  be  found  on  the  ground  where  she 
had  placed  them. 

The  old  woman  believed  in  dreams.  One  night 
she  dreamt  that  there  was  a  crock  of  gold  hidden 
in  Hohn-a-Thiel  (The  Rump  of  the  World),  a  hob 
of  hill  which  rose  behind  her  house.  Next  morning 
she  went  out  with  a  spade  at  dawn  and  started  to 
dig  for  the  gold.  When  she  had  dug  for  a  while 
a  great  pain  came  on  her  wrist  and  a  wild  animal 
called  a  dorcha  (it  had  seven  legs  and  an  iron  nose 
on  it)  came  and  attacked  her.  Crania  had  a  red 
woollen  petticoat  and  she  took  it  off  of  her  and  put 
it  on  a  rock  beside  her.  The  dorcha  does  not  like 
red  petticoats  and  it  came  forward  with  one  roar 
and  hit  the  petticoat  with  its  nose.  And  it  was 
killed.  Then  Crania  Coolin  came  home.  Crania 
believed  that  this  had  happened  to  her  and  she  often 
told  the  story  to  her  neighbours.  The  old  people 
believed  the  story,  but  the  young  of  the  glen  made 
fun  of  the  old  woman.  "Poor  old  Crania!"  the 
youngsters  would  say  with  a  wink.  "She's  a  plaish- 
am  (fool),  God  help  her!" 


Glenmornan  37 

On  the  brink  of  the  awlth,  beside  Crania  and 
Maura  The  Rosses,  a  number  of  ragged  children 
jwere  rolling  over  on  the  ground  and  tormenting  a 
little  puppy.  One  of  the  little  children  was  Hughie 
Gallagher,  Maura's  youngest  child,  a  brave  little 
rascal  of  five,  who  was  gripping  hold  of  the  pup- 
pie's  tail  and  striving  to  drag  it  into  the  ravine. 
When  the  little  dog  whimpered  Maura  would  raise 
her  head  and  shake  her  finger  at  the  youngster. 

"Now,  Hughie  Beag,"  she  would  say,  "don't  ye 
be  pullin'  the  wee  dog  about.  If  ye  do  it  again  I'll 
take  ye  in  and  skelp  yer  wee  bottom." 

On  hearing  this  Hughie  would  let  go  the  puppy, 
stick  his  finger  in  his  mouth  and  fix  a  pair  of  big 
eyes  on  his  mother.  Standing  thus  he  would  wait 
until  the  woman  took  up  her  conversation  with 
Grania  Coolin,  then  he  would  turn  to  the  dog 
again.  .  .  ,; 

IV 

The  young  boys  and  girls  of  the  townland,  who 
had  come  out  in  crowds,  were  assembled  round  the 
fire,  flinging  banter  to  one  another  and  grinning 
broadly,  showing  their  white  teeth.  A  little  distance 
apart  from  the  fire  a  boy  and  girl  were  seated  on 
the  ground,  the  boy  with  his  arms  around  the 
maiden's  waist  and  placing  wild  flowers  plucked 
from  the  ground  in  her  hair.  The  girl  was  trying 
to  push  him  away,  but  even  when  she  succeeded  in 
freeing  herself  from  his  embrace  she  did  not  get  to 
her  feet  and  run  off.  This  showed  that  she  did  not 


38  Glenmornan 

object  to  his  attentions.  But  what  girl  could?  for 
the  boy  was  Dennys  Darroch,  or  Dennys  the  Drover 
as  he  was  popularly  called,  one  of  the  handsomest 
youngsters  in  the  glen.  All  the  girls  round  about 
the  place  were  wild  after  him.  Even  Sheila  Der- 
mod,  with  whom  he  was  sitting,  was  said  to  be  in 
love  with  him,  and  Sheila  had  had  the  privilege  of 
refusing  three  wealthy  suitors,  full  of  money  and 
land.  She  was  a  girl  of  eighteen,  living  with  her 
widow  mother,  a  woman  who  had  hard  work  to  do 
to  make  both  ends  meet. 

Dennys  suddenly  got  up  to  his  feet,  looked  round 
at  the  assembled  crowd  and  then  bent  down  over 
the  girl  who  was  still  seated  on  the  grass. 

"Well,  and  if  ye  won't,  ye  won't,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh,  apparently  referring  to  some  subject  under 
discussion,  and  made  his  way  towards  the  fire.  He 
walked  with  a  great  swagger,  swinging  his  shoul- 
ders. He  was  a  fine  rung  of  a  fellow,  sinewy  as  a 
seasoned  ash-plant,  with  a  handsome  face,  grey 
shrewd  eyes  and  a  voice  like  an  echo  on  the  Done- 
gal hills.  He  spoke  quickly  and  as  quick  speakers  do, 
loudly.  Words  rushed  from  his  lips  like  a  torrent, 
just  as  they  would  when  calling  from  one  hill  to 
another  as  he  was  on  the  look-out  for  sheep.  He 
possessed  a  dauntless  view  of  life,  had  a  careless, 
defiant  manner  and  upright  courage.  The  sharp, 
steady  glance  of  a  face  from  which  a  certain  ex- 
pression of  scorn  was  never  wholly  absent,  marked 
him  as  a  man  who  was  afraid  of  nothing.  He  lived 
with  his  mother  and  sister  on  a  little  farm  which 
boasted  two  cows'  grass  and  hill  enough  for  twenty 


Glenmornan  39 

sheep.  But  Dennys  did  very  little  labour  on  the 
farm.  He  preferred  to  deal  in  cattle  at  the  fairs 
and  made  a  tidy  penny  in  that  manner.  He  seldom 
bent  over  a  spade.  "Cuttin'  worms  is  not  for  me," 
he  often  said  with  an  oath  and  nobody  was  offended, 
for  strength  gets  its  due  respect  in  Glenmornan. 

Having  left  Sheila  Dermod,  Dennys  went  to  the 
fire,  raised  a  heavy  lump  of  wood  which  was  lying 
on  the  ground  and  flung  it  with  one  great  heave  into 
the  centre  of  the  flames.  The  young  girls  uttered  a 
startled  shriek  as  a  shower  of  sparks  flew  into  the 
air  and  careered  away  on  the  breeze. 

"Finished  skiftin'*  now,  Dennys?"  asked  an  old 
man  who  was  standing  near,  his  hat  well  back  over 
his  white  hairs  and  a  fiddle  under  his  arm.  Dennys 
the  Drover  laughed. 

"Wouldn't  ye  like  to  be  in  my  place,  Oiney?" 
he  asked  the  old  man. 

"Years  ago  when  I  was  yer  height  I  wouldn't 
leave  a  girl  to  sit  be  her  own  self,"  said  the  old  man. 
"I  would  sit  be  a  girl  till  she  got  up!  But  now- 
adays young  men  are  not  worth  their  boxty.f  Sheila 
Dermod  would  rather  have  meself  sittin'  be  her  side 
than  any  young  man  in  all  the  four  corners  in  the 
glen.  Wouldn't  ye  now,  Sheila?" 

"I  would  indeed,  Oiney,"  Sheila  answered,  com- 
ing up  to  the  fire.  As  she  spoke  she  looked  at 
Dennys  and  laughed,  her  teeth  sparkling  as  the 
firelight  caught  them. 

*  Flirting. 

f  Potato-bread. 


40  Glenmornan 

"Is  it  Oiney  Leahy  that  I  hear  speakin'  ?"  some 
one  called  at  that  moment. 

"It's  me  that's  in  it,  Maura  The  Rosses,"  Oiney 
replied.  "I've  come  with  the  fiddle.  But  tell  me 
before  I  begin  if  it's  true?"  he  asked,  going  across 
to  the  ditch  on  which  the  woman  was  seated.  "It 
must  be  true,  for  every  one  is  talkin'  about  it  up 
and  down  the  glen." 

"Oh!  it's  true,"  Maura  The  Rosses  replied.  "I 
got  the  letther  there-yisterday  *  and  he  says  that 
he's  comin'  back  to  his  own  people." 

"For  good?"  Oiney  asked. 

"For  good  as  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses. 

"He'll  have  made  his  fortune,  I  suppose,"  said 
Oiney,  as  he  put  a  short  black  clay  pipe  in  his 
mouth.  "There's  fortunes  to  be  made  over  there  if 
all  accounts  bees  true.  Some  people  are  lucky  when 
they  go  out  into  the  world.  There  was  Wee  Micky 
Eamon  from  Meenaroo,  second  cousin  to  me  wife, 
God  rest  her !  he  was,  and  he  went  away  beyont  the 
water  and  stayed  there  for  short  on  five  years  and 
came  back  and  bought  old  Columb  Beag's  farm.  A 
hundred  and  thirty-five  pounds,  money  down,  he 
gave  for  it.  I  was  there  meself  when  the  luck's- 
money  was  handed  over.  Think  iv  that !  And  all 
made  in  less  than  five  years !  And  how  long  would 
it  be  now  since  Doalty  went  away?  Seven  years, 
come  the  end  of  next  month,  isn't  it?  I  mind  the 
time,  for  there  was  a  big  flood  in  the  glen  the  day 

*  Ere  yesterday.    The  day  before  yesterday. 


Glenmornan  41 

he  went  away,  and  the  mountainy  sheep  came  down 
be  the  river." 

"It's  just  short  on  six  years  since  he  went  away," 
said  Maura  The  Rosses.  "He's  been  a  good  boy 
since  he  left  us,  too,  and  he's  never  backwards  in 
sendin'  some  money  home  to  his  own  people." 

"And  he  had  the  learnin'  too,"  said  Oiney. 
"There's  nothin'  like  the  learnin'.  D'ye  mind  the 
song  about  it?" 

"Sing  it,  Oiney,"  a  voice  called  from  the  fire. 

"That's  Sheila  Dermod  that's  speakin',"  said 
Oiney,  putting  his  pipe  back  in  his  pocket.  "She's 
the  one  to  be  ski f tin'  about  with  the  boys  and  it  looks 
as  if  it  was  only  yisterday  that  she  was  playin'  tig 
and  Jackstones  on  the  road  to  school.  .  .  .  I'll  sing 
the  song  for  ye,  Sheila,"  and  without  another  word 
Oiney  began  the  song : 

"Labour  for  learnin'  afore  ye  grow  old, 
For  learnin'  is  better  nor  silver  and  gold ! 
Silver  and  gold  it  will  vanish  away, 
But  learnin'  itself  it  will  never  decay, 
And  a  man  without  learnin'  wearin'  good  clothes 
Is  like  a  gold  ring  in  a  pig's  nose." 

"That's  the  song  and  a  very  true  one  it  is,"  said 
Oiney,  cuttin'  a  caper  with  his  legs  and  jumpin' 
up  in  the  air.  "Not  bad,  that,  for  a  old  shanachie !" 
he  laughed,  looking  at  the  party  round  the  fire. 
"There's  many  a  good  honest  soul  that  has  gone 
down  the  road,  carried  on  big  shoulders,  since  first 
I  stood  on  a  dancin'  floor,  and  there's  life  and  to 
spare  in  the  old  dog  yet." 

"Come  on,  Oiney,  and  play  the  fiddle,"  Dennys 


42  Glenmornan 

the  Drover  shouted.  "It's  time  for  us  to  be  shakin' 
our  legs  if  we  want  to  make  a  night  iv  it.  Meena- 
warawor  and  Meenawarabeag  have  their  fires  all 
lit  up  and  the  dancin'  is  goin'  on  over  there." 

Oiney  went  over  to  the  fire,  sat  down  on  the 
grass,  tuned  up  his  fiddle  and  lit  his  pipe.  The 
dancing  started. 


Midnight  passed  by  and  the  fire  was  dying  down. 
Old  women  like  Maura  The  Rosses  and  Grania 
Coolin  had  gone  down  to  their  homes  long  since, 
taking  the  young  children  with  them.  Meenawara- 
wor  was  still  aflare  and  the  shouting  from  there  was 
echoing  across  the  glen.  Meenawarabeag  was  silent 
and  lights  showed  in  the  houses  of  that  townland. 
The  people  there  were  going  to  bed.  But  the  danc- 
ing was  yet  going  on  at  Stranameera  and  old  Oiney 
Leahy  was  still  playing  the  fiddle,  a  happy  look  in 
his  eyes  and  a  good-humoured  smile  all  over  his 
wrinkled  face.  The  old  man  had  reached  his 
eightieth  year  and  in  his  young  days  he  had  been  a 
great  man  for  fighting,  drink  and  the  women.  Even 
now  his  day's  work  was  not  to  be  laughed  at,  and 
as  a  fiddler  he  knew  no  equal  in  the  barony.  As 
long  as  boys  and  girls  were  able  to  dance  Oiney 
was  willing  to  play. 

A  dance  came  to  an  end  and  the  young  were  slow 
in  starting  another. 

"Shake  yer  legs,  me  buckos !"  Oiney  shouted,  as 
he  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "There's  life  in 


Glenmornan  43 

me,  an  old  dog,  yet.  The  hand  is  ready  if  the  feet 
are  willin'.  Get  to  yer  feet  again,  ye  rascals.  Show 
Meenawarawor  what  ye  can  do." 

Dennys  the  Drover  and  Sheila  Dermod  got  to 
their  feet 

"The  six-hand  reel,  Oiney,"  Dennys  shouted, 
looking  round  at  the  other  couples  who  were  wait- 
ing to  start. 

"I  wonder  what  Doalty  Connell  will  be  like  when 
he  comes  back,"  Sheila  remarked  to  her  partner. 
"He  was  a  nice  quiet  gasair  when  he  left  here." 

"He'll  just  be  like  any  tea-man  or  shop-boy  when 
he  comes  back,"  said  Dennys  in  a  disparaging  voice. 
"A  big,  high,  white  collar  he'll  have  round  his  neck 
and  he'll  be  looking  over  it  like  a  donkey  over  a 
whitewashed  wall.  They're  all  the  same  when  they 
come  home.  One  wouldn't  think  that  they  were 
brought  up  on  scaddan  and  sgiddins.*  And  they 
won't  talk  to  a  soul  that  they  knew.  I  can't  stand 
them." 

"He'll  have  plenty  of  money,  no  doubt,"  said 
Sheila. 

"Maybe  he  will  and  maybe  not,"  said  Dennys, 
"but  he'll  try  and  look  as  if  he  had  it,  anyway. 
.  .  .  But  Sheila,  am  I  to  lave  ye  at  home  the  night  ?" 
Dennys  asked,  bending  down  and  almost  touching 
the  girl's  hair  with  his  lips. 

"I  haven't  asked  ye  to  come  home  with  me,  have 
I  now?"  said  Sheila. 

"That  means  that  ye're  not  goin'  to  let  me,  then?" 

"Take  it  that  way  if  ye  like." 

*  Scaddan  and  sgiddins — sprat  and  small  potatoes. 


44  Glenmornan 

"Then  I'm  goin'  with  ye." 

"I  didn't  ask  ye  to  come,  did  I  ?"  the  girl  enquired, 
with  a  chuckle. 

"All  right  then,  Sheila  Dermod,"  said  Dennys  in 
an  impatient  voice.  "Go  home  be  yerself  if  ye 
want  to." 

"The  first  time  that  I  ever  seen  Dennys  The 
Drover  not  able  to  stick  a  dance  out !"  Oiney  Leahy 
shouted  through  the  flying  figures  in  the  maze  of 
the  six-hand  reel.  Dennys  and  Sheila  edged  in  and 
took  their  places. 

When  the  dance  came  to  an  end  Sheila  went 
over  to  her  girl  chum,  Eileen  Kelly,  and  caught 
her  arm.  "I  think  it's  time  to  be  goin'  home,"  she 
said.  "My  mother  won't  know  what's  keepin'  me." 

"But  isn't  Dennys  goin'  home  with  ye?"  asked 
Eileen.  "He  hasn't  left  ye  all  the  night.  .  .  .  And 
it's  not  time  yet  to  go  home." 

Eileen  was  a  pretty  little  girl,  with  a  three-cor- 
nered mouth  and  dark  eyes  that  darted  to  and  fro 
elusively.  She  was  mischievous,  merry  and  fond 
of  fun. 

"Time!"  said  Sheila.  "It's  time  to  be  home  and 
past  time.  I  don't  want  to  be  beholdin'  to  Dennys 
for  to  take  me  home.  He's  so  full  of  pride  and 
thinks  that  everybody  is  dyin'  after  him.  .  .  .  Well, 
I'm  not."  She  spoke  emphatically. 

"That's  like  ye,  Sheila,"  said  Eileen.  "All  the 
men  are  mad  after  ye  and  ye  won't  take  no  notice 
iv  them." 

"But  I  don't  want  them  to  be  after  me." 


Glenmornan  45 

"Ye  would  then  if  they  took  no  notice  at  all  iv 
ye,"  said  Eileen  Kelly. 

"That  might  be,"  said  Sheila  quietly.  "But  I 
don't  want  any  iv  them." 

"It's  because  ye're  so  good  lookin',"  Eileen,  who 
was  more  than  a  little  envious  of  her  beautiful 
'friend,  remarked.  "Well,  we'll  go  home  together 
the  both  iv  us.  Come,  we'll  run  down  the  brae  as 
Quick  as  we  can.  Tig  on  ye!"  she  laughed,  and 
hitting  Sheila  on  the  shoulder  she  scampered  off,  to 
be  followed  by  her  friend  down  the  hillside.  The 
pair  of  them  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  to- 
gether and  Eileen  sat  down  on  the  dew-wet  grass. 

"Do  you  know  who  was  wanting  to  come  home 
with  me  the  night  ?"  asked  Eileen. 

"Not  Dennys,  was  it  ?"  asked  Sheila,  catching  her 
breath  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

"No,  not  Dennys,"  said  Eileen.  "He  has  never 
eyes  for  anybody  when  ye're  there,  Sheila  Dermod. 
•But  who  asked  me  but  Owen  Briney!  He's  forty 
if  a  day  and  as  near-goin'  as  an  eyelid." 

"But  he  has  money  and  a  good  bit  of  land,"  said 
Sheila  with  a  little  laugh  of  mockery. 

"If  he  had  the  whole  parish  and  beholdin'  to  no- 
body I  wouldn't  be  seen  comin'  home  the  same  road 
from  a  dance  as  him,"  said  Eileen,  puckering  up  her 
three-cornered  lips  and  allowing  a  thoughtful  smile 
to  steal  over  her  face. 

"Tig  on  yerself  then !"  Sheila  cried,  touching  her 
friend  on  the  arm  with  her  fingers.  Then  running 
away,  she  skipped  across  the  ditch  and  made  for  her 
home. 


46  Glenmornan 

VI 

Eileen  walked  down  to  her  own  house,  her  head 
sunk  down  over  her  breast,  apparently  deep  ini 
thought.  She  went  to  the  door  of  her  home  to  find 
it  open.  Inside  all  was  dark,  for  her  father  and 
mother,  who  had  been  up  at  the  bonfire,  were  now 
in  bed  and  fast  asleep.  She  went  back  along  the 
road  she  had  come  and  was  in  time  to  meet  Dennys 
The  Drover  returning  from  the  fun  of  the  night. 

"Ah!  ye're  not  in  bed  then,  Eileen  Kelly?"  said 
Dennys  on  seeing  her.  "If  the  priest  hears  about 
this  he'll  not  like  it  at  all." 

"But  what'll  he  know  about  it?"  said  Eileen. 
''Nobody'll  tell  him." 

Dennys  laughed  quietly  as  if  he  did  not  want  to 
be  heard. 

"But  ye  must  tell  him  the  next  time  ye  go  to 
confession,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.  "And  then  there 
will  be  such  a  penance.  Ye'll  have  to  go  to  Lough 
Derg  on  yer  two  knees." 

Both  of  them  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Dennys 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl's  face  and  thought 
her  wonderfully  beautiful.  .  .  .  Surely  no  girl  in 
the  glen  .  .  .  Even  Sheila  was  not  as  fair  to  look 
at.  .  .  . 

"Why  do  ye  keep  yer  eyes  on  me,  Dennys  The 
Drover?"  she  asked. 

"A  cat  can  look  at  a  nice  print  iv  butter  if  it 
likes,"  said  Dennys  In  a  husky  voice.  "Can't  it 
now?" 


Glenmornan  47 

"There's  somebody  comin'!"  said  Eileen  in  a 
whisper  as  a  man  could  be  heard  approaching,  hum- 
ming a  tune  as  he  walked.  "It  must  be  old  Oiney 
gettin'  home." 

"Then  we'll  run  down  the  lane  and  hide,"  said 
Dennys,  catching  the  girl's  hand  in  his  own.  The 
two  of  them  ran  off  together,  keeping  on  the  grass 
to  deaden  the  sound  of  their  footsteps. 

"We'll  stand  here,"  said  Dennys  when  they  came 
to  the  gable-end  of  Eileen's  home.  "We've  got  to  be 
as  quiet  as  two  wee  mice."  As  he  spoke  he  pressed 
her  hand  with  a  firm  grip. 

"What  are  ye  doin'  with  me  hand,  Dennys  The 
Drover?"  asked  the  girl.  "Let  it  be,  won't  ye?" 

"Why  should  I?"  Dennys  asked  in  a  low  whis- 
per. "Do  ye  think  that  I'm  goin'  to  run  away  with 
yerhand?" 

As  he  spoke  he  bent  down,  caught  both  the  girl's 
hands  and  kissed  her  red  three-cornered  lips.  She 
tried  to  break  away  from  him,  but  her  efforts  were 
useless.  Instead  of  breaking  free  from  his  arms 
she  felt  herself  getting  pressed  closer  and  closer  to 
his  breast.  A  sense  of  grandeur  and  desolation 
swept  over  her  and  she  no  longer  resisted  him.  She 
felt  as  if  dropping  into  a  swoon.  .  .  .  Dennys  spoke 
and  released  her  from  his  arms. 

"Ye  almost  made  a  fool  iv  me  and  iv  yerself ,  too, 
Eileen  Kelly,"  was  what  he  said.  "Away  into  the 
house  and  get  ye  to  bed.  Ye  should  have  been  in 
bed  an  hour  ago!" 

He  walked  away  towards  his  home  swinging  his 
shoulders  and  humming  a  tune  under  his  breath. 


^8  Glenmornan 

Once  or  twice  he  came  to  a  sudden  halt  and  looked 
at  the  mountains.  "I  was  near  making  a  fool  iv 
meself,"  he  muttered  each  time  he  stopped.  "If  it 
isn't  one  woman  it's  another,  and  I  suppose  they'll 
get  hold  iv  us  in  the  long  run."  By  "us"  he  merely 
meant  himself. 

When  he  entered  his  home  he  took  a  meal  of 
stirabout  and  milk;  then  he  went  to  bed  and  slept 
soundly  till  morning.  Eileen  Kelly  did  not  close 
her  eyes  in  sleep  that  night. 


CHAPTER  III 


DOALTY  GALLAGHER 

I  will  go  back  to  my  father's  house  and  live  on  my 

father's  land, 
For  my  father's  house  is  by  Rosses'  shore  that  slips  to 

Dooran  strand, 
And  the  wild  mountains  of  Donegal  rise  up  on  either 

hand. 

— Going  Home. 


SO  you're  going  back  to  Ireland  again?     Bade 
to  your  own  people  and  leaving  London! 
Boys  will  be  boys  I  suppose  and  will  rove 
about  all  over  the  world  before  they  settle  them- 
selves to  the  ordinary  routine  of  daily  life.  .  .  . 
But  sit  down  while  I  pour  out  a  cup  of  tea  and  tell 
me  all  about  yourself." 

The  time  was  late  June  of  1913,  the  place  a  draw- 
ing-room in  "Ermara,"  a  large  house  on  the  banks 
of  the  Thames  near  London.  Lady  Ronan,  the 
owner  of  "Ermara,"  was  speaking  to  a  visitor, 
young  Doalty  Gallagher,  son  of  Maura  The  Rosses, 
who  was  now  employed  on  the  editorial  staff  of  a 
large  London  daily  paper.  He  had  come  down  that 
day  from  London  and  was  going  to  spend  the  week- 

49 


50  Glenmornan 

end  with  the  Ronans.  Young  George,  Lady  Ro- 
nan's  only  boy,  was  working  on  the  paper  with 
Doalty  and  both  men  were  great  friends. 

Lady  Ronan  poured  out  the  tea,  handed  Doalty 
a  cup  and  sat  down  on  a  sofa  facing  him.  She  was 
a  well-preserved  woman  of  forty-five,  who  had  once 
been  beautiful,  and  was  now  graceful. 

"Now,  tell  me  everything,  Doalty,"  she  said, 
speaking  in  a  voice  so  low  and  coaxing  that  Doalty 
felt  that  she  hoped  to  hear  some  wonderful  secret. 
She  always  called  him  by  his  Christian  name. 

"There's  nothing  to  tell,"  said  Doalty,  "I'm  go- 
ing home.  I'm  tired  of  London.  That's  all." 

"I  know  you  want  to  go  home,"  said  Lady  Ronan. 
-Who  doesn't,  especially  to  Ireland,  where  the  peo- 
ple are  so  charming.  But  to  stay  there !" 

There  was  protest  in  the  woman's  voice.  She 
spread  her  fingers  out  on  her  knee  and  fixed  her 
eyes  on  her  daintily  manicured  nails. 

"You  have  been  there,"  said  Doalty.  "But  you 
never  told  me  how  you  liked  it." 

"I  loved  it,"  said  Lady  Ronan,  nodding  her  head 
with  the  decision  of  a  verdict  beyond  repeal. 
"Everything  was  so  nice,  and  the  Irish  I  met  so 
kind  and  good-humoured.  But  it  was  always 
raining." 

"It  generally  is,"  said  Doalty.  "WEat  part  of 
the  country  were  you  in  ?" 

"The  South.    Killarney  and  about  there." 

"Saw  the  old  monastery  of  Ballyruden?"  asked 
Doalty. 

"I  was  there,"  said  Lady  Ronan,  tapping  a  long,, 


Doalty  Gallagher  51 

tapering  forefinger  on  her  knee  as  she  spoke.  "And 
the  old  man  who  told  me  the  history  of  the  place! 
He  was  so  delightful." 

'Told  you  how  St.  Patrick  fought  the  serpent  in 
the  adjoining  lake  and  how  the  serpent  got  killed?" 

"Yes." 

"And  called  the  serpent  'the  worm  ?'  " 

"That's  so." 

"And  how  the  story  was  a  true  one  because  the 
lake  is  there  still  as  proof  of  the  incident" 

"Yes,  that  was  what  he  said,"  said  Lady  Ronan. 
,"And  so  charmingly  Irish!" 

"One  could  not  wish — I  mean  an  English  person 
could  not  wish — for  anything  more  Irish,"  said 
Doalty  Gallagher.  "That  old  scoundrel  knows  it 
too.  A  few  stupid  remarks  like  those  are  his  pro- 
fessional jokes.  His  little  townland  is  his  stage 
and  the  English  tourists  are  his  audience  and  his 
prey.  They  find  him  there,  looking  into  the  lake 
as  if  he  had  been  sitting  on  its  banks  since  the  be- 
ginning of  time  and  would  remain  there  until  the 
crack  of  doom.  That  is  how  they  expect  to  find 
him  and  he  knows  it.  To  them,  that  lazy  creature 
with  a  faked  fund  of  so-called  humour,  is  Ireland. 
They  put  a  whole  race  in  the  same  category  as  that 
professional  entertainer  who  has  borrowed  his  jokes 
from  the  stage  Irishman.  Judgment  is  passed  on 
the  Irish  race  by  professional  tourists  who  have 
come  into  contact  only  with  Killarney  guides  and 
Dublin  Jarveys." 

Lady  Ronan  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  a  help- 
less fashion. 


52  Glenmornan 

"You  young  men  are  so  clever/'  she  said. 
"George  is  just  like  you.  He  can  prove  black  is 
white  and  vice  versa.  But  he  is  not  in  earnest  about 
it." 

"But  I  am  in  earnest,"  said  Doalty,  placing  his 
cup  on  the  floor.  "I'm  not  saying  clever  things  just 
to  drive  a  point  home.  I  mean  what  I  say.  It's  the 
truth.  The  English  don't  know  the  Irish." 

"The  poor  English!"  said  Lady  Ronan,  lifting 
Doalty's  cup  from  the  carpet  and  pouring  the  cold 
tea  into  the  slop-basin.  "So  you  think  that  they're 
not  as  intelligent  as  your  countrymen?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Doalty.  "Far  from 
it.  What  I  mean  is  this :  the  English  don't  know  us 
and  never  will.  They  think  we  are  lazy,  for  ex- 
ample." 

"But  if  that's  true  about  Irish  at  home  it's  not 
true  about  them  when  they  get  out  of  their  own 
country,"  said  Lady  Ronan.  "When  they're  over 
here  they  soon  get  to  the  top." 

"One  or  two  may  get  to  the  top,"  said  Doalty. 
"You  hear  about  it  when  they  do,  but  one  never 
hears  about  the  thousands  who  remain  weltering 
at  the  bottom.  Now  take  my  glen  for  example. 
Dozens  of  young  people  leave  it  yearly.  They  go 
away  to  Scotland,  to  England,  to  America.  The 
boys  become  masons'  labourers,  navvies  and  rail- 
way porters,  the  girls  become  drudges  in  the  kitch- 
ens of  big  houses.  One  may  get  on  well.  I  might, 
for  example,  if  I  stuck  to  journalism." 

"Of  course  you  would,"  said  Lady  Ronan.  "Your 
editor  who  came  down  here  the  other  day  was  loud 


Doalty  Gallagher  53 

in  his  praises  of  you.    Said  that  in  a  couple  of  years 
you  would  have  made  a  great  name  for  yourself." 

"I  might  even  get  to  the  top  of  the  tree,"  Doalty 
assented,  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  "that  dear,  delight- 
ful tree  under  which  the  poor  grovel  as  they  bring 
sap  to  its  roots.  One  day  people  might  notice  me 
and  then  they  would  say :  'How  the  Irish  people  get 
on  abroad!'  One  man  out  of  every  ten  thousand 
might  get  on  as  well  at  home  if  there  was  such  an 
opportunity.  But  there  isn't.  .  .  .  The  people  talk 
about  the  laziness  of  the  Irish  peasantry.  Listen." 

Lady  Ronan  lay  back  on  the  sofa,  one  eye  on  her 
finger-nails,  one  on  the  window,  which  looked  out 
on  the  avenue  leading  to  the  road.  Her  son,  when 
he  returned  from  town,  would  come  in  that  way. 

"In  my  glen  at  home  there  is  an  old  man,"  said 
Doalty.  "His  name  is  Oiney  Leahy.  He  has  a 
farm  of  land,  a  mile  in  length  and  about  the  width 
of  this  floor  across.  The  farm  runs  from  the  river 
to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  the  public  road  runs 
through  it.  From  the  river  to  the  road  the  bottom 
land  is  a  level  strip.  From  the  road  to  the  top  of ' 
the  hill  the  farm  stands  on  end,  and  half  way  up 
this  precipice,  which  the  poor  man  calls  (real  Irish 
humour  this  time)  his  farm,  the  farmhouse  is  sit- 
uated. Oiney's  house,  a  mere  hovel,  could  not  be 
built  from  east  to  west,  for  the  farm  is  too  narrow. 
It  had  to  be  built  from  north  to  south,  one  gable- 
end  looking  on  the  road,  the  other  looking  up  hill. 
From  the  upper  gable  wall  to  the  top  of  the  hill  the 
brae  was  one  mass  of  rocks  thirty  years  ago. 
Oiney  took  it  into  his  head  that  this  tract  of  land 


54  Glenmornan 

was  going  to  loss,  so  he  decided  to  turn  the  rocky 
brae  into  a  pleasant  field.  I  don't  think  he  ever 
heard  that  remark  about  the  man  who  could  make 
two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  only  one  had  grown 
before.  But  whether  he  heard  it  or  not  he  set  him- 
self out  to  do  it.  When  he  had  any  time  to  spare 
he  put  a  creel  on  his  back  and  went  down  to  the  bot- 
tom land  by  the  river,  filled  the  creel  full  of  clay, 
carried  it  up  the  precipice  and  emptied  it  on  the 
rocks.  It  took  him  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to 
carry  the  burden  up  and  he  did  the  job  bare-footed, 
for  the  stoney  path  up  hill  was  too  severe  on  shoe- 
leather.  And  so  he  worked  day  after  day  using 
every  spare  moment  to  make  a  little  field  amidst 
the  rocks  of  Glenmornan.  Old  Oiney  was  a  man 
who  out-rivalled  Columbus  the  explorer.  The  lat- 
ter discovered  new  land,  Oiney  made  it.  And  then 
when  this  poor  peasant  had  a  field  laid  out  on  the 
precipice  the  landlord  saw  it  and  raised  the  rent  of 
the  farm." 


ii 


At  this  moment  a  young  man  and  a  girl  entered, 
Lady  Ronan's  two  children,  George  and  Myra. 
George  had  a  certain  talent  for  writing  and  was 
gifted  with  a  ready  pen.  He  was  a  handsome, 
graceful  fellow,  a  dandy  in  dress,  a  master  of  smart 
conversation  and  as  much  at  home  in  a  drawing- 
room  as  in  an  editor's  sanctum. 

Amusing  and  easy  mannered,  with  complete  con- 
fidence in  himself,  he  was  received  cordially  every- 


Doalty  Gallagher  55 

where.  Now  and  again  he  was  a  little  violent,  but 
his  friends  liked  him  none  the  less  for  that,  for  he 
looked  as  if  he  never  meant  his  words  to  be  taken 
seriously.  He  appeared  to  regard  everything  tri- 
fling as  serious  and  everything  serious  as  trifling. 
In  his  stories,  for  example,  he  would  write  in  a  jok- 
ing fashion  about  a  workman's  strike  and  take  up 
a  serious  standpoint  when  dealing  with  a  dog-show. 
From  his  utterance  one  might  gather  that  the  for- 
mer was  a  holiday  amusement  and  the  latter  a  mat- 
ter of  national  importance.  Despite  this  he  was 
very  serious  about  his  newspaper  work  and  as  a 
matter  of  course  he  spoke  lightly  about  it  as  befitted 
a  man  of  the  world  who  tries  to  act  as  if  he  did 
not  attach  any  particular  value  to  his  toil. 

Myra  Ronan  sat  down  on  the  sofa  near  the  win- 
dow, giving  a  careless  nod  to  Doalty  Gallagher  as 
she  did  so.  She  was  a  girl  just  past  her  twentieth 
year,  wilful  and  passionate,  with  an  impulsive  spirit 
and  a  great  love  for  out-door  life.  In  her  whole 
bearing,  the  lines  of  her  perfectly- formed  body,  the 
contour  of  her  full  bosom,  the  curve  of  her  neck, 
the  sweep  of  her  eyebrows,  the  bold  look  in  her  eyes, 
there  was  something  attractive  to  all  men  and  dan- 
gerous to  herself  as  well  as  others.  Doalty  Galla- 
gher had  known  her  for  eighteen  months,  but  he 
had  never  been  on  very  intimate  terms  with  her. 
She  held  herself  aloof,  treated  him  with  an  almost 
wilful  carelessness,  and  even  her  manner  to  him 
had  a  shade  of  something  like  hostility.  She  was  a 
strange  girl,  one  whom  he  could  not  understand. 

Young  Ronan  looked  at  Doalty. 


56  Glenmornan 

"So  you  are  really  here,"  he  said,  and  went  across 
to  his  mother  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  Then  he 
sat  down. 

"Now  a  cup  of  tea,  mater,"  he  said.  "I'm  fam- 
ished. I  promised  to  meet  Doalty  at  Paddington, 
but  couldn't  get  off  in  time.  I  had  to  scrap  one 
story  and  work  up  another.  The  old  man  is  the 
deuce  of  a  temper  to-day." 

"I  never  hear  about  him  being  other  than  in  a 
bad  temper,"  said  Lady  Ronan.  "But  when  he 
comes  down  here  he  is  as  gentle  as  a  lamb." 

"He  is  a  lion  in  Fleet  Street,"  said  George.  "A 
lion  with  a  thorn  in  his  paw.  But  putting  him  to 
one  side,  has  Doalty  been  telling  you  ?" 

"He  has,"  said  Lady  Ronan.  "Going  home.  .  .  . 
Going  to  remain  in  Ireland  and  work  on  his  wee 
farm  just  the  same  as  his  neighbour  .  .  .  what 
was  that  man's  name,  Doalty?  I've  forgotten." 

"Oiney  Leahy." 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Lady  Ronan,  nodding  her 
head.  "Poor  old  man.  He  was.  .  .  .  But  does 
not  George  know  the  story  ?" 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  said  George  with  a  careless 
shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "I  hear  these  tales  about 
Glenmornan  so  often.  .  .  .  It's  a  funny  thing 
though.  When  Doalty  came  to  the  office  two  years 
ago  it  was  impossible  to  get  a  word  from  him.  He 
sat  at  his  desk  every  evening  biting  the  tip  of  his 
pen  and  brooding,  as  it  seemed,  over  the  destiny 
of  the  universe.  But  one  day,  he  had  been  a  year 
with  us  then,  he  spoke  about  Ireland  and  he  seldom 
talks  about  anything  else  now.  It's  strange  the  way 


Doalty  Gallagher  57 

Irishmen  learn  to  love  their  country  more,  the 
longer  they  are  out  of  it.  The  greatest  Irish  pa- 
triots are  American  born,  I  believe.  .  .  .  Wait  till 
Doalty  is  three  months  in  his  own  country  and  then 
he'll  be  glad  to  come  back  here.  .  .  ." 

"Never,"  said  Doalty.  "I'm  never  going  to  come 
back.  I  would  prefer " 

"A  wee  Greenanore  girl  in  an  ould  plaid  shawl,"1 
said  Myra  Ronan  with  a  malicious  shrug  of  her 
shoulders. 

"Now  children,  no  argument  on  such  a  fine  even- 
ing," said  Lady  Ronan,  rising  to  her  feet  and  look- 
ing at  her  nails.  They  seemed  to  be  a  source  of 
perpetual  interest  to  her.  "Run  out  and  take  the 
boat  on  the  river.  I'll  come  with  you,  if  you  behave 
yourselves  and  leave  the  Irish  questions  to  Red- 
mond and  Carson." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  four  of  them  were  on  the 
river. 

in 

Doalty  Gallagher  and  George  Ronan  were  sitting 
in  the  library,  George  on  the  sofa  swinging  his  legs 
aimlessly  and  Doalty  on  a  chair,  his  hands  under 
his  thighs,  his  head  erect  and  his  eyes  staring 
through  the  window  into  unfathomable  distances. 
A  butler  with  an  official  smile  on  his  red,  fat  face, 
came  in,  bearing  a  tray  of  coffee.  Doalty  looked  at 
the  butler,  took  in,  with  one  swift  glance,  the  man, 
his  red  face  and  his  smile.  This  smile  seemed  to 
be  always  there  on  duty,  now  and  again  asleep,  of 


58  Glenmornan 

course,  like  a  sentry  on  guard,  but  ready  to  wake 
up  at  the  sound  of  a  foot  or  the  rustle  of  a  skirt. 
When  Lady  Ronan's  guests  asked  him  to  do  them 
a  service  he  did  it  so  hastily  that  one  would  think 
the  man  was  more  interested  in  the  guest's  welfare 
than  in  his  own.  He  placed  the  coffee  on  the  table, 
retired  a  few  steps,  walking  backwards,  bowed  and 
went  out. 

"Now  why  are  you  going  back  to  Ireland  ?"  young 
Ronan  enquired,  lighting  a  cigarette  and  lying  back 
on  the  sofa.  "Are  you  in  love  with  some  dainty  Irish 
coleen,  like  Biddy  Cassidy,  with  a  little  pig  and  a 
brogue  and  an  old  mother  that  sits  all  day  at  a  spin- 
ning wheel?  And  Biddy,  God  bless  her,  will  have 
a  wolf  hound  and  a  harp." 

"The  former's  extinct  and  I've  never  seen  the 
latter  until  I  left  Ireland,"  said  Doalty.  "It's  a 
funny  country,"  he  went  on.  "Its  people  are  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  In  the  first  place  they  hate  this 
country  with  a  traditional  hatred,  the  hatred  of  a 
vendetta.  And  no  wonder,  for  English  laws  have 
ground  them  down  to  the  very  dirt.  The  gombeen 
man  is  just  as  bad,  nay !  he  is  worse  than  the  land- 
lord, and  the  poor  respect  him  after  a  fashion.  Why 
should  they  not,  for  is  not  the  priest  and  the  gom- 
been man  the  greatest  friends  in  the  world  ?  Is  not 
one  half  of  the  Irish  priests  the  sons  of  gombeen 
men?  You  should  hear  the  priest  make  a  sermon  on 
the  torments  that  await  men  who  are  damned  be- 
cause they  have  not  paid  the  debts  due  to  a  gombeen 
man.  Good  God!  If  I  had  my  way  with  priests 


Doalty  Gallagher  59 

like  those  I'd  hang  every  man  of  them  from  the 
crosses  of  their  own  altars." 

"Easy,  Doalty  my  boy,  easy/'  said  young  Ronan 
smiling  lazily.  He  looked  round  to  see  if  an  ash- 
tray were  near,  but  not  seeing  one  he  flicked  the  ash 
from  his  cigarette  on  the  carpet.  He  was  always 
a  good  listener,  and  Doalty,  when  the  mood  was  on 
him,  was  a  great  talker. 

"It's  enough  to  drive  one  mad  at  times  to  find  the 
way  things  are  done,"  said  Doalty.  "Now  in  my 
own  place,  for  example,  who  is  left  there?  The 
young  men  and  the  young  girls  grow  up  and  when 
they  reach  a  certain  age  they  clear  out  of  the  coun- 
try. Nine  go  away  out  of  a  family  of  ten.  The 
tenth  remains  and  he  is  generally  the  weakling. 
Not  much  good  in  him  going  away,  so  he  stays  at 
home  and  marries  a  weakling  like  himself.  Soon 
there  will  be  none  in  the  country  but  the  inefficient." 

"All  that  is  very  evident,"  said  Ronan  with  a 
smile,  flicking  some  more  ash  to  the  carpet  "But 
I  can't  follow  your  meaning.  Why  are  you  going 
home?  Have  you  made  a  fortune  and  are  eager, 
to  spend  it?" 

IV 

"My  worldly  wealth  is  some  thirty  pounds,"  sai'd 
Doalty.  "I'll  spend  that  easily.  No  place  like  Ire- 
land for  spending  money.  I'll  have  to  give  some 
of  it  to  my  mother.  She  is  always  putting  a  little 
by.  That  is  her  one  ambition,  to  put  some  money  in 
the  bank.  If  I  gave  her  ten  thousand  pounds  she 


60  Glenmornan 

would  put  every  penny  of  it  in  the  bank  and  con- 
tinue living  just  as  she  is  living  now.  She  might, 
of  course,  buy  another  bit  of  land  and  get  so  su- 
perior that  she  would  not  speak  to  a  neighbour.  In 
her  own  townland  she  is  a  great  swell;  she  looks 
down  on  her  neighbours  as  it  is,  because  she  has 
six  cows'  grass  and  most  of  the  people  about  her 
have  only  feeding  for  two  or  three  cattle." 
j  "But  still  you  have  not  told  me  yet  why  you  want 
to  get  back  there/'  said  Ronan,  again  flicking  the 
ash  to  the  carpet. 

•  "I  want  to  get  back  to  my  own  people,"  said 
Doalty.  "I  am  going  to  work  as  they  work  and 
toil  in  the  fields  and  mow  the  hay  and  dig  the  pota- . 
toes.  I  am  g^ing  to  do  some  real  work,  not  such 
as  I  do  here.  What  do  we,  the  moulders  of  public 
opinion,  really  do?  For  myself,  I  get  out  of  bed 
in  the  morning  at  nine  o'clock.  In  Glenmornan 
half  a  day's  work  is  finished  by  then.  I  go  down 
to  the  office  and  hang  about  there,  chewing  the  top 
of  a  pen  until  lunch.  After  lunch  I  come  back  to 
the  office  to  find  that  the  news  editor  has  found  a 
story  for  me.  I  have  got  to  call  on  old  Mr.  Plodder, 
who  has  made  a  fortune  as  head  of  Plodder's  Gro- 
cery Stores.  He  will  be  in  the  next  honours  list, 
for  he  has  given  piles  of  money  to  charity.  He  has 
risen  from  the  gutters  and  now  he  is  at  the  top  of 
the  business  world.  I  have  to  get  his  photograph 
(an  easy  matter)  and  interview  him,  get  the  story 
of  his  wonderful  career,  how  he  got  rich,  etc.  Two 
things  I  know  before  I  see  the  man.  One  is  that  he 
had  read  Smiles'  Self-Help  and  the  other  is  that  he 


Doalty  Gallagher  61 

does  not  know  how  he  amassed  so  much  money. 
He  will  say  that  he  became  rich  by  steady  toil  and 
honest  endeavour.  But  that  means  nothing.  Oiney 
Leahy,  of  Glenmornan,  is  as  steady  a  worker  as 
Plodder,  and  Oiney  hasn't  got  a  penny.  So  I  see 
him,  write  him  up  in  the  most  glowing  manner.  I 
do  it  to  make  my  living,  the  newspaper  does  it  be- 
cause Plodder  advertises  in  its  columns.  I'm  not  in 
earnest  about  the  job;  it  gives  me  no  pleasure.  In 
short,  I'm  sick  of  it.  I'll  be  much  happier  in  Glen- 
mornan." 

"And  you'll  be  glad  to  get  back  here  again,  I 
bet,"  said  Ronan.  "Six  months  will  be  quite  enough 
for  you  there.  Let  me  know  when  you're  coming 
back,  Doalty.  I'll  see  that  you're  taken  on  the  pa- 
per again." 

Lady  Ronan  was  part  proprietor  of  the  daily  on 
which  Doalty  was  employed.  She  was  a  very 
wealthy  woman.  Her  husband  who  had  died  re- 
cently left  a  large  fortune. 

"And  if  you  get  any  good  stuff  send  it  on,"  said 
Ronan.  "The  old  man  will  give  it  a  place,  I  know. 
He  likes  your  work." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and  Myra  Ronan 
entered. 

"Are  you  two  coming  with  me  for  a  walk?"  she 
asked.  "Down  by  the  river.  It's  such  a  fine  night 
for  a  stroll." 

Doalty  had  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking  at 
the  girl.  George  stretched  himself  out  on  the  sofa 
and  puffed  rings  of  smoke  into  the  air. 

"I'm  not  going  for  a  walk  at  this  hour,"  he  said. 


62  Glenmornan 

"I've  got  to  go  on  some  job  or  another  (I  forget 
what  it  is)  to-morrow  morning.  Take  Doalty  with 
you,  Myra.  He's  leaving  here  on  Monday  and 
maybe  he'll  never  come  back  again." 

"Will  you  come,  Doalty?"  Myra  enquired.  Like 
her  mother  and  brother  she  always  called  the  young 
Irishman  by  his  Christian  name. 

"I'll  be  happy  if  you  allow  me,"  said  Doalty 
eagerly. 

Five  minutes  later  they  were  both  on  the  bank 
of  the  river.  There  was  a  breath  of  freshness  from 
the  quiet  water  and  a  soft  breeze  rustled  through 
the  tall  grass  that  was  not  yet  tramped  down  by  the 
feet  of  holiday  makers.  The  night  was  very  clear, 
with  a  sky  studded  with  stars.  The  horizon  on  the 
east  across  the  fields  glowed  a  pale  white  and  her- 
alded the  moon  which  would  presently  rise. 

"To  think  of  remaining  indoors  on  a  night  like 
this !"  said  Myra  in  a  voice  of  feeling.  "If  nobody 
came  with  me  I  would  have  come  out  alone.  Shall 
we  have  a  long  walk,  ever  such  a  long  walk?  You 
don't  mind,  Doalty?" 

"Mind!     Certainly  not.     Where  shall  we  go?" 

"Oh !  anywhere,"  she  said,  as  if  abandoning  her- 
self to  Doalty's  guidance,  then  paused  as  if  consid- 
ering the  question.  "I  know,"  she  exclaimed,  after 
a  moment's  silence.  "We'll  go  along  the  river  till 
we  pass  the  church  in  the  fields.  Then  we'll  go 
across  through  the  meadows  to  Pyford.  .  .  . 
lYou've  never  been  to  the  village  of  Pyford, 
Doalty?" 

"Never,"  he  replied. 


Doalty  Gallagher  63 

"Then  you'll  like  it,  especially  by  moonlight,  when 
all  the  people  are  asleep,"  she  said,  stepping  out 
briskly,  as  if  on  the  point  of  breaking  into  a  run. 
"It's  a  little  village  with  a  crooked  street  and  such 
old  houses.  I  have  often  gone  out  there  on  moon- 
light nights.  .  .  ." 

"Alone?"  asked  Doalty. 

"Why  not?"  queried  the  girl,  casting  a  cursory 
glance  at  Doalty.  "I'm  able  to  take  care  of  my- 
self." 

"But  one  never  knows  what  might  happen." 

"So  mother  says,"  Myra  replied.  "But  I  did  not 
think  that  you  would  have  ideas  like  that.  They  are 
so  old-fashioned.  A  girl  is  as  well  able  to  protect 
herself  as  a  man." 

"From  whom,  and  from  what?" 

"From  anybody  and  anything,  from  a  tramp  or 
a  mad  dog,"  said  Myra.  "From — oh !" 

Doalty  bent  to  lift  her  almost  as  soon  as  she 
reached  the  ground. 

"What  happened  ?"  he  enquired  as  he  helped  her 
to  her  feet. 

"My  foot  caught  in  a  root  and  I  tripped,"  she 
said.  "It's  so  dark,  and  going  through  this  grass 
you  don't  know  what  you  are  going  to  step  on." 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself?" 

?'No." 

"Well,  let  me  take  your  arm,  and  I'll  try  and 
save  you  from  falling  when  you  meet  the  next 
root." 

He  took  her  arm  as  he  spoke  and  both  proceeded 
pn  their  way  along  the  river.  The  moon  withered 


64  Glenmornan 

at  one  of  its  corners,  rose  over  the  fields  and  lit 
up  the  whole  country  with  a  strange  misty  light. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  perfume  of  recently  cut  hay 
and  from  the  distance  came  the  sound  of  a  train  on 
its  journey  to  London. 

"What  a  wonderful  night !"  Myra  exclaimed.  "If 
I  had  the  choice  of  dying  when  I  pleased  I  would 
choose  a  night  like  this.  And  this  wonderful  walk, 
Doalty!  Do  you  like  it?" 

"Yes,  it's  wonderful,"  Doalty  replied,  then  spoke 
again,  as  if  he  had  not  already  concluded  his  sen- 
tence. "Very  wonderful,  Miss  Ronan,"  he  said. 

She  drew  her  arm  away  from  his,  stood  still  and 
looked  at  him.  Doalty  knew  that  she  was  going  to 
ask  a  question  and  he  guessed  what  that  question 
would  be. 

"Why  do  you  always  call  me  Miss  Ronan?"  she 
asked.  "I  always  call  you  Doalty.  I  hope  it  does 
not  annoy  you." 

"I  would  have  called  you  Myra  long  ago,  but  I 
was  afraid  to  do  so,"  said  the  Irishman  in  a  voice 
which  had  suddenly  become  strangely  husky.  "It 
somehow  seems  that  I  have  no  right  to  do  so." 

"You  have  as  much  right  as  I  have." 

"Havel?" 

"Have  I— what?" 

"Myra." 

"Now  you  may  take  my  arm  again,  Doalty,"  said 
the  girl,  with  a  smile.  "There  are  roots  all  through 
this  grass.  And  here  is  the  church." 

It  showed  through  the  elms  near  the  river,  an  old 
building  with  its  spire  standing  clear  cut  against 


Doalty  Gallagher  65 

the  sky.  The  base  of  the  church  was  steeped  in 
coal-black  shadows,  through  which  wisps  of  mist 
were  wandering  aimlessly. 

"It's  hundreds  of  years  old,"  said  Myra,  "and 
there's  no  road  near  it.  Do  you  know  why  that  is  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know,  Myra."  He  dwelt  on 
the  name  lovingly  and  his  hand  touched  hers. 

"The  church  was  built  at  a  time  when  the  coun- 
try was  covered  with  trees  and  when  people  trav- 
elled more  by  water  than  land,"  said  the  girl. 
"They  came  to  church  by  boats.  Services  were  held 
here  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  ago.  Proba- 
bly the  ghosts  of  the  old  worshippers  are  about  the 
place  yet.  Suppose  we  saw  one  of  them  come  out 
now.  Oh !  I  would  be  so  frightened !" 

As  she  spoke  a  slight  shudder  ran  through  her 
and  she  clutched  Doalty's  hand. 

"So  you  are  really  afraid  of  something?"  he 
asked,  pressing  her  fingers  tightly.  "But  there  are 
no  ghosts,  you  know,"  he  assured  her.  "At  least 
not  in  England." 

"But  there  are  some  in  Ireland,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes.  Behind  every  hedge  and  under  all  the 
holly  trees." 

"And  you  want  to  go  back  to  see  all  these  ghosts 
again,"  said  the  girl. 

"It's  not  altogether  for  that  purpose,  Myra," 
said  Doalty.  "I'm  homesick  and  I'm  tired  of  liv- 
ing here." 

"Tired  of  us  all  ?"  she  asked,  but  by  her  tones  it 
was  evident  that  "us  all"  meant  herself  alone. 

"Oh!  I'm  not  tired  of  you,  but  still " 


66  Glenmornan 

"Then  I  suppose  you  really  are,"  she  said  diffi- 
dently, then  as  if  some  work  had  been  accomplished 
to  her  satisfaction,  she  remarked:  "It's  about  time 
that  we  went  back.  Mother  will  be  anxious." 

They  turned  round  and  retraced  their  steps  arm 
in  arm,  their  hands  clasped  and  the  little  village  of 
Pyford  quite  forgotten.  Doalty's  mind  was  filled 
with  the  thoughts  which  can  never  be  absent  from 
a  young  man's  mind  on  such  an  occasion.  What 
Myra  was  thinking  of  it  was  impossible  to  say. 
Anyway,  she  did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  They 
walked  along  the  river  in  silence,  passed  through 
the  gate  and  up  the  carriage  drive.  The  hall-door 
of  Ermara  was  left  half  open  and  a  lamp  was  still 
alight  in  the  hall.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  there. 
Myra  withdrew  her  hand  from  Doalty's  as  they 
crossed  the  threshold. 

•"I  must  go  up  and  tell  mother  that  we  have 
come  in,"  she  said,  and  without  bidding  her  com- 
panion Good-night  she  tripped  upstairs. 


Doalty  followed  her  and  went  to  his  bedroom. 
It  opened  out  on  a  long  narrow  passage  in  the  sec- 
ond floor.  Opposite  it  was  the  bedroom  in  which 
Myra  slept. 

Doalty  sat  down  on  a  chair,  lit  a  cigarette  and 
left  the  door  half -open.  The  passage  outside  was 
in  darkness  save  where  the  light  from  Doalty's 
room  showed  across  the  floor  and  lit  up  the  door  of 


Doalty  Gallagher  67 

Myra  Ronan's  bedroom.  He  would  see  her  go  into 
her  room  when  she  came  along  the  passage.  Why 
did  he  want  to  see  her?  He  did  not  love  her  and 
he  was  certain  that  she  did  not  love  him.  But  he 
did  not  think  of  this.  All  he  could  think  of  was  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  when  she  clasped  his  by  the 
old  church,  her  white  throat,  her  soft  delicate 
cheeks,  her  charming  eyes,  the  poise  of  her  chin. 
...  A  feeling  passionate  and  primitive,  which  is 
never  wholly  absent  at  twenty-one,  welled  up  in 
Doalty's  breast,  almost  choking  him  with  its  ex- 
quisite pain. 

Myra  came  along  the  passage,  stopped  opposite 
her  bedroom  door  and  looked  in  at  Doalty  in  his 
room. 

"You're  not  in  bed  yet,  Doalty,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  as  if  afraid  that  somebody,  other  than 
Doalty,  was  listening  to  her. 

"Neither  are  you  in  bed,"  he  replied,  getting  to 
his  feet.  He  spoke  as  if  the  fact  of  Myra  not  yet 
being  in  bed  was  sufficient  excuse  for  him  to  be  up. 

"Oh !  neither  of  us  could  be  as  yet,  for  we  have 
only  just  come  in,"  said  Myra,  placing  her  fingers 
on  the  handle  of  her  door  and  drawing  them  away 
again.  "You  did  like  that  church  in  the  moon- 
light?" she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  it  interested  me  very  much,"  he  whispered 
in  reply.  It  almost  seemed  that  the  sight  of  the  old 
building  by  moonlight  was  a  secret  known  only  to 
the  two  of  them  and  which  had  to  be  kept  hidden 
from  all  other  mortals. 

Myra  came  to  the  door  of  Doalty's  bedroom, 


(68  Glenmornan 

stepping  very  softly  on  the  carpet  and  trembling  a 
little  as  she  reached  him. 

"There's  a  picture  of  the  church  hanging  on  your 
wall  near  the  window,"  she  said  nervously,  blush- 
ing as  she  spoke. 

"A  painting?" 

"Yes." 

"Which  of  these  pictures  is  it?" 

He  went  across  to  the  window  and  looked  at  one 
picture  in  a  gilt  frame.  It  was  certainly  not  the 
painting  of  a  church,  but  he  looked  at  it  as  atten- 
tively as  if  his  very  gaze  would  transform  an  etch- 
ing of  two  children  playing  with  a  dog  into  an  an- 
cient home  of  religious  worship. 

When  he  looked  round  again  he  found  Myra  be- 
hind him,  looking  at  the  same  picture. 

"That's  not  it,"  she  said,  "I  don't  think  it  is 
really  here.  It  was,  some  time  ago,  but  I  think 
mother  has  taken  it  away  for  her  own  room.  She 
is  always  changing  things." 

"And  this  picture  of  the  boy  and  girl  playing  with 
a  dog,"  Doalty  said.  "You  are  the  girl,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"She's  not  like  me,  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  so  dark  here  that  I  cannot  see 
it  very  well." 

"Well,  I'll  get  up  on  a  chair  and  have  a  look," 
said  Myra,  drawing  forward  the  chair  on  which 
Doalty  had  been  sitting  a  few  minutes  earlier.  She 
sprang  up  on  it  with  a  bound,  active  as  a  kitten,  and 
her  head  became  level  with  the  etching. 

"It  is  very  dark,"  she  said,  "and  this  chair  is  so 


Doalty  Gallagher  69 

woggeldy.  Just  don't  let  me  fall  on  the  floor, 
Doalty.  If  I  come  down  I'll  waken  the  whole 
house/' 

He  held  her  arm  and  steadied  her  while  she  ex- 
amined the  picture.  As  he  did  so  his  heart  was 
filled  with  a  strange,  joyful  emotion  and  a  great 
feeling  of  tenderness  towards  the  girl. 

"Well,  I  hope  I  never  looked  like  that/'  she  whis- 
pered. "She's  an  ugly  little  creature.  .  .  .  Whisht ! 
there's  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  One  of 
the  servants  maybe,  putting  out  the  lights." 

Doalty  rushed  to  the  door  of  the  room  and  looked 
out.  Nobody  was  to  be  seen,  but  the  soft  thud  of 
heavy  feet  in  slippers  could  be  heard  coming  up. 
Doalty  shoved  the  door  to  and  shut  it.  Then  he 
turned  round  to  see  Myra  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  near  the  bed,  her  head  thrust  a  little  for- 
ward and  one  hand  over  the  ear  in  a  listening  at- 
titude. 

Outside  the  steps  sounded  along  the  passage, 
halted  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  then  went  back 
again  and  died  away. 

"It's  the  butler,  I  think,"  said  Myra  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "He's  always  prowling  about  like  a 
fox." 

"If  he  had  come  in!"  Doalty  hazarded. 

"If  he  had,"  said  the  girl  with  a  deep  intake  of 
breath,  and  a  horrified  expression  showed  in  her 
eyes.  Never  before  had  Doalty  seen  the  girl  look 
so  beautiful.  Her  look,  her  eyes,  her  round  chin 
magnetised  Doalty.  Something  fierce  and  ungov- 
ernable, a  mad  wild  passion  took  possession  of  him, 


70  Glenmornan 

and  the  next  moment  he  found  himself  sitting  on 
the  bed  by  her  side,  his  arm  round  her  shoulders, 
his  lips  resting  on  hers,  pressing  them  in  against 
her  white  teeth  with  wild  undisciplined  violence. 
And  the  girl  yielded  to  his  embrace,  returning  his 
kisses  and  caresses.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  glorious  passion 
of  twenty-one. 

"Suppose  somebody  saw  us  in  here/'  she  asked 
shyly,  when  several  minutes  had  passed,  apparently 
conscious  for  the  first  time  of  the  position  in  which 
she  had  placed  herself. 

iflt  doesn't  matter,"  Doalty  said  with  a  superior 
masculine  smile,  resting  her  head  in  the  crook  of 
his  arm  and  kissing  one  eye,  then  another.  "You 
are  not  afraid,  are  you?" 

"No,  Doalty,  but  still,  it  doesn't  seem  right, 
somehow,"  said  Myra. 

"If  anybody  knew." 

She  sat  up,  drew  a  deep  breath  and  ran  on  tip- 
toes towards  the  door.  She  stood  there  for  a  mo- 
ment, listening,  then  waved  Doalty,  who  was  ap- 
proaching her,  away. 

"I'm  going  to  my  own  room,"  she  whispered, 
looking  at  him  and  then  averting  her  eyes.  "It  was 
wrong  of  me  to  come  in.  ...  Good-night,  Doalty." 

With  these  words  she  opened  the  door,  rushed 
out  into  the  passage  and  disappeared.  Doalty  could 
hear  the  door  of  her  room  open  and  close.  Then 
silence  followed. 

He  drew  his  chair  up  to  the  door  and  sat  down 
on  it,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  closed  bedroom, 


Doalty  Gallagher  71 

and  imagined  many  things  for  a  full  hour  after- 
wards. 

"She'll  be  asleep  now,"  he  said  at  last,  and  get- 
ting up  he  undressed,  put  on  his  pyjamas  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  Then  he  went  up  to  the  mirror  which 
stood  over  the  washstand  and  looked  at  his  face 
in  it,  while  a  wild  sensual  feeling  surged  through 
his  blood.  The  novelty  of  an  hour  ago  had  died 
away,  only  the  desires  remained,  leaving  Doalty 
dissatisfied  and  despondent.  He  should  not  have 
allowed  her  to  run  away.  If  he  had  been  firm  she 
would  have  remained — she  would  be  in  the  room 
now.  He  rubbed  his  handkerchief  over  the  mirror 
where  his  breath  had  dimmed  it  and  looked  at  his 
reflection  again.  His  heart  beat  violently,  the  veins 
on  his  temples  throbbed,  and  his  arms  shook  as 
if  with  cold.  He  threw  his  cigarette  into  the  empty 
fireplace,  put  another  in  his  mouth  but  did  not  light 
it.  Instead  he  went  out  of  his  room,  stepped  softly 
up  to  Myra's  door  and  listened  with  his  ear  to  the 
keyhole.  No  sound  was  to  be  heard,  no  movement, 
no  breathing.  He  went  back  to  his  room  again, 
turned  out  the  light  and  got  into  bed. 


VI 


On  the  following  morning  he  was  late  in  getting 
out  of  bed.  When  he  went  down  to  the  dining-room 
he  found  nobody  there.  Lady  Ronan  had  gone  off 
to  church  and  George  had  departed  for  London. 
He  would  return  to  his  home  that  night.  But  Myra 


72  Glenmornan 

was  also  absent.  She  generally  had  breakfast  with 
Doalty  when  he  had  visited  the  house  before. 
Breakfast  was  laid  for  him  and  he  sat  down  and 
poured  himself  out  a  cup  of  tea.  It  was  then  that 
lie  noticed  a  letter  addressed  to  him  lying  on  a  plate 
by  his  side.  The  writing  on  the  envelope  was  Myra 
Ronan's.  He  opened  it  and  read  the  hastily 
scrawled  letter.  This  was  what  it  contained: 

DEAR  DOALTY, 

I  am  sorry  that  I  have  to  go  away  without  bidding  you 
good-bye.  I  intended  to  tell  you  about  my  intended  depar- 
ture last  night  when  we  were  out  for  the  walk  along  the 
river.  I  am  going  to  stay  with  a  girl  friend  at  her  home  the 
other  side  of  London  and  I  shall  be  there  for  several  days. 
You  shall  be  in  Ireland  by  the  time  I'm  back  home  again.  I 
hope  you'll  enjoy  life  over  there.  Let  us  know  how  you  are 
getting  on  when  you  have  time  to  write  a  line.  We'll,  all 
of  us,  be  delighted  to  hear  from  you.  Excuse  this  hurried 
scrawl. 

Yours  sincerely, 

MYRA  RON  AN. 

"Well,  I'm  'damned !"  said  Gallagher  in  a  puzzled 
voice  as  he  placed  the  letter  back  in  the  envelope. 
"  'Let  us  know  how  you  are  getting  on !'  " 

He  took  out  the  letter  again,  read  it  twice  before 
replacing  it  in  the  envelope.  Then  leaning  over  the 
table  he  looked  in  the  cup  as  if  the  tea  had  suddenly 
possessed  some  great  attraction  for  him. 

"All  this  had  to  be,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"What  was  I  expecting?  I  did  not  love  her,  I  could 
not  love  her.  She  does  not  love  me,  and  I  knew 
it.  ...  I  amused  her  I  suppose,"  He  smiled  bit- 


Doalty  Gallagher  73 

terly  and  lifted  the  tea-cup  from  the  saucer,  plac- 
ing it  on  the  table.  Then  he  sat  upright,  placed 
both  hands  in  his  pockets,  lay  back  on  the  chair  and 
fixed  a  vacant  look  on  the  window  opposite. 

Doalty  was  a  well-built  young  man  with  light 
brown  eyes  and  very  dark  hair.  He  left  school, 
the  mountain  school  of  Glenmornan,  when  he  was 
fourteen.  At  fifteen  he  came  to  London  with  a 
crowd  of  Irish  labourers  and  got  a  job  as  nipper 
in  the  employ  of  a  jobbing  contractor.  He  was 
a  voracious  reader  and  tried  his  hand  at  writing 
when  he  was  seventeen.  At  nineteen,  when  work- 
ing at  the  London  Docks,  he  sent  some  contribu- 
tions to  a  daily  paper,  stories  of  labourers,  sailors, 
tramps  and  doss-house  residents.  All  the  stories 
were  published  and  paid  for.  He  sent  more  stuff 
to  the  paper  and  this  was  also  taken,  then  he  him- 
self was  taken  as  reporter  on  the  staff.  He  had 
now  been  on  the  paper  for  two  years. 

Now  as  he  sat  there  alone  in  the  Ermara  break- 
fast room,  thinking  of  Myra  Ronan,  he  recalled 
women  he  had  known  and  a  little  typist  in  the  news- 
paper office  came  to  his  mind.  The  journalists 
called  her  Fluffie  amongst  themselves.  She  was  a 
pretty,  fair-haired  girl  of  nineteen  when  Doalty 
first  saw  her.  She  attracted  him  and  he  fell  madly 
in  love  with  her.  She  was  in  his  thoughts  all  day 
and  in  his  dreams  all  night.  But  he  never  dis- 
closed his  passion  to  the  girl.  In  her  presence  he 
felt  tongue-tied,  impotent.  Even  once  when  he  had 
a  chance.  .  .  .  But  no.  ...  It  was  in  the  office,  in 
a  dark  passage  on  the  ground  floor  that  he  met  her. 


74  Glenmornan 

.  .  .  She  was  coming  along  with  a  sheaf  of  papers, 
and  as  he  passed  her  she  gave  a  little  shriek  and 
clutched  his  arm. 

"What's  wrong?"  Doalty  stammered  as  if  the 
sweet  shiver  which  ran  through  his  body  had  com- 
municated itself  to  his  tongue. 

"I  thought  I  saw  a  mouse  running  along  there !" 
said  the  girl,  with  a  slight  catch  in  her  voice. 

"No  .  .  .  nothing!"  said  Doalty  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  I'm  terrified  of  mice,"  said 
Fluffie,  and  a  little  smile  hovered  on  her  eyelashes. 
Then  she  scuttled  away. 

That  night  Doalty  sat  in  his  room,  lighting  cig- 
arette after  cigarette  and  throwing  them  in  the 
grate  when  they  burned  to  his  fingers.  At  four 
in  the  morning  he  went  to  bed.  When  he  fell 
asleep  he  dreamt  of  Fluffie,  and  in  the  dream  she 
was  asking  him  to  save  her  from  a  dreadful  mon- 
ster that  was  attacking  her.  He  tried  to  help  her, 
but  his  efforts  were  futile.  The  monster  was  drag- 
ging her  down,  down  along  with  him  into  a  dark 
pit.  Doalty  tried  to  drag  the  girl  back  but  could 
not.  Instead  of  helping  her  he  fell  with  her  down, 
down.  .  .  .  He  woke  up. 

Next  day  the  editor  called  him  to  his  office.  Fluf- 
fie was  there,  bending  over  the  typewriter.  As 
Doalty  went  in  the  girl  left,  first  fixing  a  knowing 
look  on  him,  as  if  some  secret  of  his  had  been  re- 
vealed to  her. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  this  work?"  asked  the 
editor  when  the  room  was  left  to  the  two  men. 


Doalty  Gallagher  75 

'"I  like  it  well,"  said  Doalty.  "But  it  needs  get- 
ting used  to  a  bit." 

"It  does,"  said  the  editor,  smiling  slightly  and 
fashioning  letters  with  his  forefinger  in  the  air. 
This  was  a  habit  of  his  when  immersed  in  thought. 

"Life  is  not  the  same  here  as  in  the  East  End 
where  you  have  been  working,"  he  said.  "There 
a  man  can  do  his  job  with  a  cap  on;  here  a  man 
needs  to  wear  a  hat.  There  a  man  can  wear  trou- 

;  sers  patched  and  baggy,  but  here For  my  own 

part,  I  don't  care  what  a  man  wears ;  it's  the  man 
that  counts  and  not  his  rags.  But  when  reporters 
go  out  on  a  story  they  have  a  better  chance  of  get- 
ting there  in  a  top-hat  than  in  a  cap.  It's  funny, 

but  still Well,  I've  got  a  story  for  you,"  said 

the  editor  without  changing  his  tone  of  voice.  "It's 
about,"  etc. 

As  Doalty  went  out  Fluffie  came  in  again.  It  al- 
most seemed  as  if  she  had  been  waiting  behind  the 
door.  Probably  she  had  been  listening  to  the  con- 
;  versation. 

Next  morning  Doalty  came  to  his  work  in  a 
velour  hat,  a  new  lounge  suit  and  trousers  that 
were  carefully  creased.  Hitherto  he  had  worn  a 
cap  and  trousers  that  were  both  a  little  the  worse 
for  wear.  A  week  later  Fluffie  left  the  office.  He 
never  saw  her  again. 

Then  there  was  a  girl  at  the  tea-shop  where  he 
and  his  mates  used  to  have  tea  in  the  afternoons. 
All  the  young  journalists,  with  the  exception  of 
Doalty,  vowed  that  they  were  in  love  with  the  girl, 
whom  they  called  Pussie.  They  made  collections 


76  Glenmornan 

amongst  themselves  and  bought  the  girl  boxes  of 
chocolate.  The  boxes  were  always  bound  in  pink 
ribbons  with  pink  bows.  Pink  was  Pussie's  fa- 
vourite colour.  After  a  time  she  went  from  Fleet 
Street  to  a  job  in  a  Piccadilly  teashop.  All  the 
young  men,  with  the  exception  of  Doalty,  made 
love  to  the  girl  who  came  to  replace  her.  Doalty, 
however,  went  to  tea  in  Piccadilly  afterwards  and 
continued  going  there  until  Pussie  got  married  to 
a  taxi  driver. 

He  read  Myra's  letter  again,  crumpled  it  up  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"It  doesn't  matter  and  I  don't  care,"  he  said, 
gazing  ruefully  at  the  cup  in  which  the  tea  had  be- 
come quite  cold. 


CHAPTER  IV; 

IN"  HIS  MOTHER'S  HOUSE 

I  have  been  gone  from  Donegal  for  seven  years  and  a 

day, 
And  true  enough  it's  a  long,  long  time  for  a  wanderer 

to  stay, 
But  the  hills  of  home  are  aye  in  my  heart  and  never 

are  far  away. 

—7  Will  Go  Back. 


F  I  ^HE  soft  Summer  night  was  falling  and  a 
few  stars  already  showed  over  Carna- 
-*•  ween,  though  the  colours  of  the  sunset 
still  lingered  behind  Sliav-a-Tuagh,  where  that  hill 
rose  over  Meenawarawor  to  look  out  on  the  sea. 
[The  evening  twilight  settled  on  boreen  and  brae 
and  showed  densely  dark  in  the  awlth  behind  the 
house  of  Maura  The  Rosses.  The  brooks  reeling] 
'down  to  the  river  looked  white  and  ghostly  as  they 
[fell  over  the  rocks.  A  young  girl  was  driving  the 
cows  home  from  the  hills  and  the  cattle  could  be 
seen,  coming  down  carefully,  picking  their  way 
over  hillock  and  hobeen.  The  girl  could  be  heard 
shouting  in  a  shrill,  clear  voice :  "Come  home  with 
ye  now,  ye  silly  crathur!  Have  sense  and  get  on 
with  ye,  ye  wee  divil  ye  I" 

77 


78  Glenmornan 

The  peasantry  were  coming  in  from  the  fields, 
the  men  walking  with  a  slow,  decided  step,  their 
pipes  in  their  mouths  and  their  spades  over  their 
shoulders.  The  women,  more  in  a  hurry,  were 
coming  into  their  homes  well  ahead  of  their  men 
folk,  singing  as  they  made  their  way  through  the 
long  grass  of  the  meadows.  They  had  much  work 
to  do  still,  for  the  cows  had  to  be  milked,  the  stir- 
about had  to  be  made  ready.  The  men  had  been 
working  hard  all  day  and  it  would  not  do  to  keep 
them  waiting  for  their  suppers.  Many  of  the  cows 
were  already  in  the  byres  tied  to  the  stakes,  their 
full  udders  yearning  for  the  hands  of  the  milkers. 

Doalty  Gallagher,  home  from  foreign  parts,  was 
sitting  on  the  ground  outside  the  door  of  his  moth- 
er's house,  his  soul  drinking  in  all  the  glory  of  the 
Irish  nightfall.  A  bat,  whirring  in  the  air  over 
his  head,  now  and  again  swooped  down  and  round 
him,  almost  touching  his  ear.  He  had  come  home 
that  day  at  noon,  and  up  till  a  few  moments  ago, 
he  had  been  inside  the  house  speaking  to  the  neigh- 
bours who  had  come  to  see  him.  He  felt  very 
happy.  Everything  in  the  glen  and  around  him 
seemed  beautiful  and  full  of  meaning.  His  soul 
was  filled  with  peace  and  goodwill  towards  all  men 
and  he  wished  to  every  one  the  same  happiness  as 
that  which  filled  his  own  heart.  He  was  looking  on 
everything  with  a  fresh  mind  in  which  there  was 
no  bitterness. 

The  smell  of  the  midden,  the  turf  fire  and  the 
rich  grass  was  in  his  nostrils  and  all  this  woke  pleas- 
ant remembrance  in  the  young  man.  It  recalled 


In  His  Mother's  House  79 

to  him  his  childhood  and  the  days  that  had  gone. 
"Ah  I  how  very  good  it  is  to  be  back  again,"  he  said. 
"Everybody  is  so  happy  and  they  are  all  so  glad  to 
see  me !  And  the  little  boy,  Hughie !  What  a  rip- 
ping little  rascal.  He's  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
me.  But  why  should  he  be?" 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  walked  along  the  field  for 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  then  sat  down  again  in 
the  grass  that  was  already  getting  wet  with  the 
dew.  He  bent  his  lips  to  the  ground,  kissed  it  and 
looked  round  to  see  if  any  one  had  observed  him. 
Nobody  was  nigh.  "If  they  saw  me  they  would 
think  that  I  was  a  fool!"  he  laughed.  "Wonder 
what  mother  would  do  if  she  saw  me  kiss  Ireland? 
She  would  shake  the  holy  water  over  me,  I'm  sure. 
And  I  saw  the  bottle  of  holy  water  to-day.  Under 
the  roof  beam,  just  where  it  used  to  be  seven  years 
ago.  And  the  bottle  was  once  used  for  whisky. 
The  label  is  on  it  yet." 

The  air  was  pure  and  fresh,  making  him  feel  a 
little  drowsy.  He  looked  down  the  dip  of  the 
meadow  and  he  could  see  the  white  streak  of  the 
glen  road  losing  itself  in  the  gloom.  Lights  ap- 
peared in  the  houses  and  more  stars  were  creeping 
timidly  out  in  the  heavens. 

"Just  as  it  used  to  be,"  he  said.  "Just  the  same 
as  I  mind  it.  In  London  I  used  to  have  pleasure  in 
looking  forward;  here  somehow  the  pleasure  is  in 
looking  back." 

"Go  on  little  cow,  now!  Do  ye  not  want  to  be 
milked  the  night?" 


8o  Glenmornan 

The  girl  up  on  the  hill  was  still  calling  to  the 
cattle. 


ii 


"Doalty !  Where  are  ye?  Come  in  and  have  yer 
supper !" 

It  was  his  sister  Norah  who  was  calling.  She 
had  just  milked  the  cows,  two  of  which  were  giv- 
ing milk.  Three  were  springing  and  it  was  ex- 
pected that  one  of  these,  a  white  faced  animal  with 
a  belly  taut  as  a  drum,  would  calve  twins.  So 
Maura  The  Rosses  told  her  son. 

"I'm  here,"  said  Doalty  in  answer  to  his  sister. 
He  had  got  to  his  feet  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Come  in  then,  afore  yer  supper  gets  cold,"  she 
said. 

He  went  across  to  her. 

"How  many  cigarettes  d'ye  smoke  in  a  day?" 
she  asked. 

"About — I  don't  know  how  many — twenty 
maybe." 

"And  what  d'ye  pay  for  them?"  she  asked. 

"About  a  shilling  for  twenty,"  he  said. 

"A  shilling,"  said  Norah.  "What  a  lot  iv  money. 
Can  I  have  one?" 

"Of  course  you  can,"  said  Doalty  and  handed  her 
a  cigarette. 

"D'ye  know  who's  comin'  to  see  ye  ?"  Norah  said. 
She  was  a  very  handsome  girl,  well  proportioned 
and  light  on  her  feet. 

"Who?" 


In  His  Mother's  House  81 

"Old  Oiney,"  said  Norah.  "I  met  him  on  the 
hill  a  minute  ago  when  I  was  up  for  the  cows  and 
he  said  that  he  was  comin'  in  to  see  ye  when  he  got 
his  cattle  in.  He  is  very  fond  iv  ye." 

"I  like  old  Oiney,"  said  Doalty.  "Is  he  as  lively 
as  ever?" 

"He's  an  old  omadhaun,"  said  Norah.  "He's  al- 
ways talkin'  about  the  old  times  and  we  are  all  sick 
iv  listenin'  to  him." 

"Go  on,  wee  cow,  now !  I'm  tired  iv  ye,  ye  wee 
divil  ye!" 

"Who's  that  on  the  hill?"  asked  Doalty,  as  he 
heard  the  voice  of  the  girl  again.  "She  seems  to 
have  trouble  enough  with  the  cows." 

"It's  Sheila  Dermod,"  said  Norah.  "The  Der- 
mods  have  only  two  cows  on  their  bit  iv  land,  and 
to  hear  her  speak  one  would  think  that  she  has 
whole  drove  iv  them." 

"You're  not  friendly  with  her,  are  you?"  asked 
Doalty. 

"Our  ma  and  her  ma  fell  out  two  years  back, 
and  we  have  never  passed  a  word  with  her  since 
then,"  said  Norah.  "Breed  and  Sheila  live  to- 
gether and  they  are  as  proud  and  distant  as  the  hills. 
And  Sheila  thinks  that  every  boy  in  the  glen  is  mad 
after  her." 

"So  you're  jealous  of  her,"  said  Doalty  with  a 
laugh. 

"Me  jealous  iv  her!"  Norah  exclaimed.  "Jeal- 
ous iv  Sheila  Dermod  and  her  one  iv  the  lowest  iv 
the  low.  God  forbid  me  that  I  would !" 


82  Glenmornan 


in 

Doalty  and  Norah  went  in  home  together.  A 
good  red  turf  fire  glowed  on  the  hearth  and  beside 
the  fire  Maura  The  Rosses  was  seated,  on  a  wooden 
stool,  a  stocking  in  her  hand,  and  her  bare  toes 
peeping  out  from  under  her  red  woollen  petticoat. 
Wee  Hughie  was  rolling  on  the  floor,  a  puppy  dog 
frollicking  around  his  bare  legs  and  barking  mer- 
rily. Doalty's  youngest  sister,  Kitty,  a  girl  who 
was  getting  her  education  at  the  convent  school  of 
Greenanore,  was  seated  at  the  stirabout  pot  which 
stood  on  the  floor,  eating  her  supper.  A  lamp 
hanging  by  a  nail  from  the  wall,  lit  the  smoky  at- 
mosphere of  the  room  with  a  soft,  mellow  light. 
The  walls  were  turf  brown,  a  tint  which  harmonised 
with  the  dun  colourings  of  the  floor.  A  long  beam 
of  bog-oak  stretched  across  the  rigging  of  the 
house,  under  the  scraughs,  and  from  this  beam  and 
the  rafters,  raying  fanwise  out  from  it,  all  man- 
ner of  utensils  were  hanging,  trahooks,*  scythes, 
spades  and  shovels. 

"So  here  ye  are,  Doalty,"  said  the  mother,  ris- 
ing from  her  seat  and  pouring  out  a  bowl  of  milk 
which  she  placed  on  the  table  in  front  of  a  dish  of 
stirabout.  "There's  yer  brahun-ray,  so  make  a 
good  meal  iv  it." 

"I'll  make  a  good  meal,  never  fear,"  said  Doalty. 
"When  is  Oiney  coming  in  to  see  me  ?" 

"He'll  be  in  at  any  minit  now,"  said  the  mother, 

*Trahook:    A  twister  used  in  making  ropes. 


In  His  Mother's  House  83 

sitting  down  again  by  the  fire  and  resuming  her 
knitting.  "There  he's  comin',  I  think.  I  hear  his 
steps." 

At  that  moment  Oiney  Leahy  entered  without 
rapping.  They  never  rap  on  the  door  in  Glen- 
mornan.  With  his  hat  on,  for  the  people  never  re- 
move their  hats  when  entering  a  house,  Oiney  went 
up  to  Doalty  and  caught  both  the  young  man's 
hands. 

"And  is  it  yerself  that  is  back  to  the  barony  iv 
Burrach  again,  Doalty  Connel?"  he  said,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  emotion.  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  ye 
again  after  all  the  time  that  ye  were  away  from 
yer  own  home.  .  .  .  And  ye've  got  to  be  a  fine 
hearty  man  too.  And  a  Gallagher,  a  Gallagher, 
every  inch  iv  ye  1" 

"So  he  hasn't  changed  so  much  that  ye  wouldn't 
know  him?"  asked  Maura  The  Rosses,  touched  by 
the  old  man's  hearty  welcome  for  her  son. 

"And  d'ye  think  that  I  wouldn't  be  knowin' 
Doalty,  the  oldest  son  iv  Connel  Gallagher,  God 
rest  him !"  said  Oiney  in  a  voice  of  protest.  "Know 
him !  Be  Goigah !  I'd  know  his  skin  on  a  bush." 

The  old  man  released  Doalty's  hands  and  stepped 
back  a  few  paces  and  surveyed  him  minutely  from 
head  to  heel. 

"Just  as  I  expected  him  to  look,"  he  said,  when 
the  inspection  came  to  an  end.  "He  might  just 
be  the  same  as  he  is  now,  if  he  had  never  left  home. 
Just  sittin'  down  to  his  brahun-ray  and  butther- 
milk  like  any  one  in  the  glen.  .  .  .  And  how  long 
will  ye  be  stayin'  with  us  now  ?"  he  enquired. 


84  Glenmornan 

By  "us"  Oiney  meant  the  people  of  Glenmor- 
nan. 

"I'll  stay  for  quite  a  long  time,"  said  Doalty. 

"Iv  course  ye  will,"  said  Oiney,  again  clasping 
the  young  man's  hands  and  shaking  them.  "There's 
maybe  no  place  like  yer  own  bit  iv  the  world  when 
all's  said  and  done.  ...  It  must  be  an  awful  thing 
to  live  away  in  the  big  town  where  ye're  seein'  hun- 
dreds iv  people  day  after  day  and  never  the  same 
face  two  times  over.  And  I'll  bet  ye  now,  that 
there's  no  place  like  Glenmornan  after  all!  Isn't 
that  so,  Doalty  me  boyo?" 

"That  is  so,"  said  Doalty.  "And  you're  look- 
ing quite  well  on  it,  Oiney." 

"Then  I'm  as  well  as  can  be  expected,"  said 
Oiney  with  an  air  of  decision.  "But  all  the  same 
I'm  a  worn-out  old  fellow,"  he  continued,  not  with- 
out a  certain  complacency,  and  paused,  as  if  wait- 
ing to  hear  his  remark  contradicted. 

"Mary  and  Joseph!  but  ye're  not  old  lookin', 
Oiney,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  working  her  knit- 
needles  violently,  as  if  to  emphasise  her  assertion. 
"Ye  look  as  young  this  very  day  as  ye  did  ten  years 
ago.  Now  what  age  are  ye  ?"  she  enquired. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye,"  said  the  old  man.  "And  this 
is  how  I  know.  'Twas  on  the  day  that  I  was  mar- 
ried and  Condy  Mor  iv  Meenawarawor,  since  dead, 
God  rest  him!  said  to  me,  'Oiney/  says  he,  If  ye're 
alive  and  well,  come  Candlemas  next,  ye'll  be  such 
and  such  an  age  on  that  day/  So  ever  since  then 
I  know  me  years.  Eighty  years,  Candlemas  past, 
is  my  age." 


In  His  Mother's  House  85 

"Well,  ye  look  a  young  man  yet,"  said  Maura 
The  Rosses,  pandering  to  Oiney's  coquetry — the 
coquetry  of  years. 

"Do  ye  think  so,  Maura  ?" 

"Think  it,  Oiney!"  said  the  woman.  "I  don't 
think  it.  I'm  sure  iv  it." 

"Well,  ye  may  be  right,  thank  God,"  said  Oiney, 
seating  himself  on  the  chair  which  Norah  Gal- 
lagher had  pushed  up  towards  him,  and  drawing 
his  old,  weather-worn  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 
-'There's  life  and  to  spare  in  the  old  dog  yet.  And 
happy!  Be  Jarra!  I  never  was  as  happy  in  all 
me  life.  An  old  dog  for  the  hard  road  and  a  pup 
for  the  level,  as  the  sayin'  is !  I  was  always  on  the 
hard  road  and  I've  never  had  a  doctor  to  me  in  the 
whole  iv  me  life." 

"Is  that  true  ?"  asked  Doalty,  sitting  down  again 
to  his  interrupted  meal. 

"May  I  die  where  I  sit  if  there's  one  word  iv 
a  lie  in  it,"  said  Oiney.  "Look  at  me!  Eighty 
years  if  an  hour  I  am,  and  I've  never  had  a  doctor 
to  me  in  all  me  life.  No,  nor  a  taste  iv  physic 
either.  .  .  .  But  what's  the  good  iv  it  anyway  ?  It 
won't  keep  a  man  alive  for  iver.  If  sickness  comes 
me  way  it's  just  what  would  come  to  any  one,  and 
if  it  came  I  would  hold  me  peace  and  not  give  it 
the  nose  to  let  it  draw  one  yelp  from  me.  But  look 
at  the  people  in  the  barony  nowadays!  If  they're 
goin'  to  die  their  first  thought  is  on  the  doctor  and 
not  on  the  Last  Sacrament.  It  was  different  when 
yer  father,  God  rest  him,  was  taken  with  the  sick- 
ness, Doalty.  He  said,  'Send  for  the  priest  and 


86  Glenmornan 

don't  trouble  about  the  doctor.'  .  .  .  Ah!  the  old 
times " 

"There  were  no  times  like  them,"  said  Doalty 
Gallagher. 

"There  were  no  times  like  them  and  niver  will 
be  again,"  said  Oiney,  as  he  pulled  out  a  little  black 
clay  pipe  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  in  his  mouth. 
Oiney  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  colouring  clays. 

"Don't  light  up  yet  for  a  wee  minit,"  said  Maura 
The  Rosses,  as  she  rose  from  the  stool  and  made 
her  way  to  the  big  room.  When  she  came  back 
she  had  a  large  bottle  of  whisky  in  her  hand.  Fill- 
ing a  glass  she  handed  it  to  Oiney.  The  old  man 
raised  it  to  his  nose,  smelled  it,  then  put  it  down 
again.  He  reached  out  his  hand  and  clasped  Doal- 
ty's. 

"Ah!  It's  glad  to  see  ye  back  here  again  that 
I  am,"  he  said,  and  a  new  warmth  had  crept  into 
his  voice.  "I  often  have  been  thinking  iv  ye, 
Doalty,  me  boy.  And  it's  glad  that  I  am  to  know 
that  ye  made  any  amount  iv  money  beyont  the 
water.  Nobody  deserves  to  make  it  more  than  a 
son  iv  Connel  Gallagher." 

He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  emptied  it  at 
one  gulp. 


IV 


"It's  good  stuff,"  he  said.  "And  d'ye  know," 
he  went  on,  launching  into  a  fresh  subject,  as  if 
the  drink  had  given  him  the  inspiration.  "I  used 
to  make  a  lot  iv  money  meself  at  one  time.  But 


In  His  Mother's  House  87 

that  was  years  back.  .  .  .  Now  it's  everybody  for 
himself.  But  in  the  times  that  wor  there  wor  good 
men  in  this  arm  iv  the  glen.  That  was  thirty  years 
ago,  when  yer  father,  God  rest  him,  was  a  young 
man,  Doalty.  He  was  a  splendid  gasair  and  would 
give  ye  the  very  sugar  from  his  tay." 

"And  you  could  make  money  then?"  said  Doalty. 

"Lashin's  and  lavin's  iv  it,  me  boy,"  said  Oiney, 
thrusting  his  hat  back  and  running  his  fingers 
through  his  white  hair.  "  'How  did  I  make  it?* 
ye'll  ask.  Well,  I'll  tell  ye,  but  never  a  word,  mind. 
I  don't  want  the  people  iv  the  barony  to  know  how 
I  made  it.  In  the  old  times  I  was  able  to  help  them 
when  their  rent  was  due,  but  nowadays  they  look 
at  me  and  laugh  behind  me  back.  They  helped  me 
to  spend  the  money  and  gave  me  nothin'  in  ex- 
change for  it  but  the  bad  name.  .  .  .  And  God 
knows  why!  I  was  never  stingy,  for  what  is  the 
good  of  being  near-going  and  close-fisted?  Greed 
puts  wrinkles  in  the  soul  as  well  as  on  the  forehead. 
I  have  seen  this  though  people  may  be  laughin'  at 
me  and  callin'  me  a  droll  ould  card.  But  mind  ye, 
I  can  talk  sense  though  I  never  put  money  by.  I 
take  life  easy,  have  a  drink  when  I  can  get  one,  am 
merry  and  say  me  prayers.  Take  everything  as  it 
comes  from  God  is  me  way  and  if  one  job  isn't  fin- 
ished at  night  I  can  take  it  up  again  in  the  mornin'. 
But  look  at  some  of  the  people  about  here,"  said 
the  old  man  with  a  sly  grin  as  he  put  a  live  coal  to 
his  little  black  clay. 

"They're  workin'  late  at  night  and  up  again  in 
the  mornin'  before  the  blackbird  shakes  itself.  Not 


88  Glenmornan 

to  go  further  away  than  next  door  but  one,  looE 
at  Owen  Briney.  .  .  .  He's  always  workin'  and 
lavin'  by  and  what  will  be  the  end  iv  it  all  for  him 
and  men  like  him  ?  They  have  days  to  make  money 
but  never  an  hour  to  spend  it.  Accordin'  to  their 
way  iv  lookin'  at  things  they  have  nothin'  done  as 
long  as  there's  anything  to  do.  They'll  begrudge 
the  hour  to  die  in. 

"When  they  go  there'll  be  somebody  to  spend  the 
money  for  them,"  Oiney  went  on.  "I  know  many 
a  man  who  has  gone  and  left  a  fortune  behind  him. 
Then  his  sons  drank  the  money  or  his  daughters 
spent  it  on  hats  and  dresses.  I  don't  know  what's 
comin'  over  the  glen  girls  nowadays,"  said  the  old 
man,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Norah  Gallagher  as  if  the 
remark  was  meant  for  her.  "It's  all  flounces  and 
hats  and  fine  boots  and  shoes,  and  paper  pads  over 
their  breasts  and  over  their  bottoms.  They  puff 
out  their  bodies  in  a  way  that  God  never  intended 
them,  and  they  think  that  they  are  queens.  But  in 
the  ould  days  yer  hand  could  feel  what  the  eye  saw 
and  ye  were  never  disappointed.  Now  it's  hood- 
winkin'  us  that  they  be  all  the  time.  They  can't 
go  outside  the  door  without  puttin'  their  boots  on. 

"But  look  at  me,"  continued  Oiney,  running  the 
pipe-shank  through  his  chin-whiskers.  "Eighty 
|  years  if  a  day  and  I  can  go  out  and  do  a  night's 
cuttin'  iv  green  rushes  on  Meenawarawor  without 
a  boot  to  me  feet.  Once — ye  wouldn't  think  it 
now,  widye? — I  had  as  much  money  as  any  man  in 
Glenmornan  and  ye  know  what  that  means." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Doalty. 


In  His  Mother's  House  89 

"Mean !"  said  Oiney.  "It  means  everything,  me 
boy.  I  could  at  that  time  go  into  the  fair  iv 
Greenanore  and  put  every  man  in  shoe-leather  as 
drunk  as  a  king.  I  was  a  man  then  and  could 
carry  a  bag  of  Indian-buck,  two  hundredweight 
that,  home  on  me  back  after  drinking  glass  for 
glass  with  every  man  I  met.  That,  too,  at  the 
heel  iv  the  day,  and  never  put  me  bottom  down  for 
a  rest  on  the  whole  journey,  and  all  the  way  up- 
hill. But  look  at  the  men  nowadays !  Not  one  in 
the  whole  barony,  bar  young  Dennys  The  Drover 
maybe,  can  do  the  same.  I  would  be  ashamed  to 
be  like  that,  wouldn't  I  now,  Maura  The  Rosses?" 

"Ye  would,  indeed,  Oiney,"  said  the  old  woman, 
placing  her  stocking  on  the  floor  and  bringing  out 
her  snuff-box  from  her  breast.  She  handed  it  to 
Oiney  Leahy.  He  got  hold  of  the  snuff  between 
finger  and  thumb  and  drew  it  through  one  nostril. 
Then  he  tried  the  other,  the  right,  but  finding  it 
stopped,  he  drew  it  a  little  apart  and  inhaled  vio- 
lently. 

"It  never  gives  me  the  sneeze  iv  late,"  he  said 
and  looked  round.  .  .  .  Nobody  was  up  now  ex- 
cept Doalty  and  his  mother.  Little  Hughie  was 
lying  in  the  kitchen  bed,  his  two  big  blue  eyes  star- 
ing out  at  the  old  man. 

"Oo  don't  see  me,  Oiney,"  he  called. 

"I  see  ye,  ye  vagabone,"  Oiney  said.  "Ye're 
there  in  the  bed  and  yer  two  eyes  lookin'  out." 

"Not  my  two  eyes,"  said  Hughie. 

"Whose  eyes,  then,  tell  me?" 


9O  Glenmornan 

"Eyes  iv  the  Wee  Red  Head  Man,"  Hughie  an- 
swered. His  mother  often  told  Hughie  the  story 
of  the  Wee  Red  Headed  Man  who  went  to  Tir- 
nanoge,  The  Land  of  Eternal  Youth,  to  marry  the 
jQueen  of  The  Fairies. 

"Ye  get  to  sleep,  Hughie,"  said  Oiney  as  he  got 
Jo  his  feet.  "I've  got  to  go  home  now  and  have  me 
sleep  meself." 

"Another  drop  of  this  before  you  go,"  said 
Doalty  as  he  filled  a  glass  and  handed  it  to  Oiney. 

"Fuxey  very  nice,"  Hughie  called  from  the  bed, 
but  Oiney  did  not  hear  him.  Raising  his  glass  the 
old  man  gripped  Doalty's  hand  once  more  and  tears 
started  to  his  eyes. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  ye  here  again,"  he  said.  "Ah  I 
Doalty  Connel!  it's  grand  to  see  ye  back  again,  a 
big  man.  And  I  can  mind  when  ye  were  a  wee 
gasair  not  the  height  iv  me  leg.  I  can  mind  it  well, 
Doalty  Connel,  and  yerself  not  the  height  iv  me 
knee!" 

So  saying,  the  old  man  drank  the  glass  at  one 
gulp  and  walked  out  sideways  through  the  door; 
without  another  word. 


Maura  The  Rosses  looked  at  her  son,  and  her 
half-drowsy,  half-watchful  eyes  had  in  them  a  look 
of  tenderness,  not  unmixed  with  curiosity. 

"Well,  and  how  d'ye  like  him  ?"  she  enquired. 

"He's  a  grand  old  man,"  said  Doalty. 


In  His  Mother's  House  91 

"He'll  be  at  the  turf  now,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses. 

"What?"  Doalty  questioned. 

"He'll  be  at  turf  now  and  taking  a  creel  home 
with  him,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses.  "He  hasn't 
got  one  turf  on  his  bit  iv  a  hill,  for  he  didn't  cut 
them  in  time  last  year,  and  so  he  did  not  save  a 
clod.  But  all  the  same  he  must  get  his  bit  of  a 
fire,  poor  man.  And  he's  so  proud  that  he'll  not 
ask  any  one  about  the  place  for  the  len  iv  a  creel. 
He  comes  round  at  night  and  steals  them.  It's  us 
one  night,  and  then  it's  Owen  Briney  the  next 
night,  and  round  and  round  he  goes,  stealin'  them, 
the  old  fool,  when  he  could  get  them  for  the  askin'." 

"Oiney's  a  feef,"  said  Hughie  from  the  bed. 

"Ye  get  to  sleep,  ye  rogue,"  said  the  mother. 
"If  ye  don't  get  a  sleep  on  ye  this  very  minit  I'll 
give  ye  no  breakfast  in  the  mornin'." 

"Come  into  bed,  maw,"  the  little  boy  called  after 
a  moment's  silence.  "Want  oo  tell  me  a  story." 

"That's  like  the  wee  vagabone,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses,  looking  at  her  son  Doalty.  "It's  a  story 
every  night  before  he  goes  to  sleep  for  him,  and  he 
won't  sleep  one  wink  without  it." 

"Me  want  story,  maw,"  the  little  boy  called  again 
from  the  bed. 

"And  what's  that  Oiney  was  saying  about  the 
time  when  he  could  make  plenty  of  money?" 
Doalty  asked.  "Was  it  when  he  belonged  to  the 
Schol  Gaelig  (Irish  School)  ?" 

"That  was  the  time  he  was  talkin'  about,"  said 
Maura  The  Rosses.  "He  was  making  good  money. 


92  Glenmornan 

as  a  Cath  Breac  *  then.  Twelve  pounds  a  year  it 
was,  I  think." 

"And  he  was  trying  to  turn  everybody  Protes- 
tant, wasn't  he?"  Doalty  enquired. 

"I  think  that  was  what  it  was  for,  the  Schol 
Gaelig,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses.  "Oiney  had  a 
wee  school  in  his  house,  and  the  glen  boys  used  to 
go  there  just  to  help  poor  Oiney  to  make  a  decent 
penny.  There  used  to  come  a  man  twice  a  year  and 
put  out  the  Catechis  on  the  boys,  but  the  Catechis 
was  different  to  that  put  out  in  the  schools.  One 
question  used  to  be:  'How  many  Apostles  were 
in  it  ?'  And  the  answer  to  that  was :  There  was 
twelve  Apostles  and  one  iv  them  was  the  divil/ 
.  .  .  The  man  who  used  to  come  and  put  out  the 
questions  was  always  dressed  in  black,  and  one 
night  when  this  man  was  seen  going  away  from 
Oiney's  house  the  glen  boys  that  lay  out  be  the  road 
to  have  a  look  at  him,  saw  that  he  had  two  horns 
stickin'  out  iv  the  top  iv  his  head.  Think  iv  that! 
and  the  man  used  to  say  that  he  was  teachin'  the 
Gospel.  His  money  was  good  anyway,  arid  Oiney 
at  the  time  that  he  was  gettin'  the  money  was  one 
iv  the  best  dressed  men  that  went  to  Mass  iv  a 
Sunday. 

"Yer  father,  God  rest  him  in  peace!  used  to  go 
to  Oiney's  and  was  a  scholar  in  the  Schol  Gaelig 
school,"  said  Maura  The  bosses.  "Oiney  in  ad- 
dition to  his  pay,  used  to  get  two  shillin's  for  every 
scholar  he  had  in  the  school,  and  one  shillin'  he 
used  to  give  to  the  scholar  and  one  Oiney  kept  him- 
*  Speckled  cat. 


In  His  Mother's  House  93 

self.  .  .  .  And  sometimes  on  a  dark  night  the 
young  gasairs  used  to  go  before  the  Man  in  Black 
three  times,  dressed  different  each  time.  .  .  . 
Oiney  had  no  light  in  the  house  barrin'  the  turf 
•fire  and  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  a  man  had  been 
in  before  or  not  Sometimes  a  scholar  used  to  pass 
three  times  and  that  would  be  six  shillin's  to  the 
good  iv  the  glen.  Often,  too,  after  an  examination, 
when  the  strange  man  left,  the  boys  used  to  get 
hold  iv  him  as  he  was  crossin'  the  bogs  on  his  way 
to  the  town  in  Donegal  and  pitch  him  into  a  hole. 
But  it  has  all  stopped  now  because  the  priest  came 
to  hear  about  it  and  he  said,  from  the  steps  iv  the 
altar,  that  he  would  make  every  Cath  Breac  in  the 
parish  go  to  Lough  Derg  on  their  knees  as  penance 
for  their  sins.  After  that  was  read  out  the  peo- 
ple did  not  like  Oiney  because  they  thought  that 
he  was  half  a  Prodesan." 

"Isn't  oo  comin'  bed  the  night?"  Hughie  called. 

Doalty  got  to  his  feet  and  went  outside,  to  smoke 
a  cigarette.  When  he  returned  his  mother  was  in 
bed  and  telling  a  story  to  Hughie  Beag. 


VI 


"Once  upon  a  time  when  the  cows  were  kine  and 
the  eagles  iv  the  air  used  to  build  their  nests  in  the 
chin-whiskers  iv  giants,"  Maura  was  saying,  in  a 
low  monotone,  "there  lived  a  funny  people  in  a 
funny  wee  wood.  There  was  the  cow  and  the 
sow,  and  the  ox  and  the  fox,  and  the  cat  and  the 


94  Glenmornan 

bat,  and  the  wren  and  the  hen,  but  one  day  there 
came  a  big  famine  and  all  died  iv  the  hunger,  all 
bar  the  cat  and  the  bat  and  the  wee  red  hen." 

"Maw!"  said  a  little  voice  from  the  blankets. 

"What's  wrong  widye,  now,  Hughie  Beag?" 

"Don't  like  that  story,  maw.  Tell  me  nuvver 
story." 

"Ye  get  a  sleep  on  ye  and  close  yer  eyes,  Hughie 
Beag,"  said  the  mother,  and  went  on  with  her  tale. 

"Well,  when  it  was  Spring  the  cat  and  the  bat 
and  the  wee  red  hen  went  out  to  dig  the  ground 
for  the  corn.  They  had  a  wee  crooked  spade " 

"Oiney  has  a  cookit  spade,  maw,"  said  Hughie. 

"True  for  ye,"  said  the  mother.  "Well,  they 
went  out  to  the  field  and  looked  at  one  another. 
'Who's  goin'  to  dig  the  ground?'  they  asked.  'I'll 
not/  said  the  bat  I'll  not,'  said  the  cat.  'But  I 
will/  said  the  wee  red  hen." 

"Me  never  heard  cats  or  hens  say  anyfing,"  said 
Hughie  from  the  blankets.  The  mother  took  no 
heed  of  the  remark  of  the  youngster  but  continued 
the  story. 

It  told  how  the  cat  and  the  bat  would  do  no  work 
at  all  and  the  wee  red  hen  did  everything,  dug 
the  ground,  planted  the  grains  of  corn,  one  for  the 
mouse  and  one  for  the  crow,  one  to  rot  and  one  to 
grow.  When  the  corn  grew  up  the  hen  cut  it  with 
a  wee  crooked  scythe  in  the  harvest  season.  Then 
when  it  was  winnowed  the  hen  carried  the  corn  to 
the  mill  in  her  beak  and  it  took  her  seven  days  to 
do  the  job.  The  miller  was  a  wee  hedgehog  who 
had  a  wee  mill,  in  a  wee  hole,  in  under  the  holly 


In  His  Mother's  House  95 

bush,  beside  the  holy  well.  He  milled  the  corn 
and  the  hen  carried  the  meal  back  to  her  little 
home  in  the  funny  little  wood. 

Her  neighbours  never  did  a  hand's  turn  to  help 
her,  for  the  cat  was  always  washing  its  whiskers 
and  the  bat  was  always  blind.  But  for  all  that, 
they  were,  both  of  them,  ready  to  eat  the  bannock 
of  bread,  made  from  the  meal,  when  it  was  baked 
by  the  wee  red  hen.  The  brown  bannock  was 
placed  on  the  floor  when  ready  and  the  hen  went 
out  to  the  well  to  get  some  water  for  the  tea,  and 
when  she  came  back  the  bat  and  the  cat  had  eaten 
the  whole  loaf. 

"And  that  is  the  way  iv  the  world,  Hughie 
Beag,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  in  the  same  low 
monotone.  "It's  the  hardest  workers  who  go  most 
often  without  their  bit  iv  bread.  Isn't  that  the  way 
iv  the  world,  Hughie  Beag?"  she  asked  in  a  whis- 
per. There  was  no  answer.  The  little  boy  was 
asleep. 

Doalty  went  into  the  big  room,  and  began  to 
undress.  How  grand  and  great  this  day  had  been, 
he  thought  to  himself.  How  dull  and  useless  Lon- 
don seemed  compared  to  this.  The  hills,  the  mead- 
ows, the  turf  smoke,  the  girl  calling  the  cows  in 
from  the  braes,  old  Oiney.  ...  "I  love  them  all," 
said  the  young  man.  "To-morrow  I'll  go  out  to 
the  bog  and  gather  the  turf.  .  .  .  I'm  so  happy. 
...  'It  must  be  awful  not  to  see  the  same  people 
one  day  after  another.'  ...  It  is,  Oiney.  Here 
everything  stands  still.  The  table,  the  stool  by 
the  fire,  the  holy  water  bottle.  .  .  .  All  the  same 


96  Glenmornan 

as  when  I  left  years  ago.  If  I  was  away  fifty 
years  and  came  back  there  would  be  no  change. 
The  hills,  the  glen,  the  river,  the  thatched  houses, 
the  lamps  getting  lit  in  the  evening,  all,  all  the 
same.  .  .  .  And  old  Oiney.  .  .  .  What  a  fine  story 
I  could  make  about  him.  .  .  .  But  that  would  be  a 
sin." 

Doalty  went  into  bed  and  was  presently  asleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

OINEY  LEAHY 

If  there's  no  woman  in  the  house, 

To  milk  the  cow,  or  wash  the  delf, 
The  poor,  old  man,  who's  left  his  lone, 

Is  always  talking  to  himself. 
He  makes  the  fire  and  rakes  it  out, 

He  leaves  the  ashes  by  the  hob, 
And  all  the  time  his  heart  is  sore 

For  there's  no  woman  on  the  job. 
It's  funny  when  a  man  gets  old 

And  no  one  heeding  what  he'll  say, 
He'll  sit  beside  the  fire  his  lone 

And  speaking  to  himself  all  day. 

— A  Peasant  Song. 


OINEY  LEAHY  lived  all  alone,  in  his  little, 
house  on  the  brae.     He  had  married  when 
he  was  a  young  man  of  twenty,  and  twa 
sons  were  born  to  him.     These  went  out  into  the 
world,  and  as  he  never  heard  from  them  after-, 
wards,  he  did  not  know  what  had  become  of  them. 
Probably  both  were  now  dead.     His  wife,  a  good 
upright  woman,  died  when  Oiney  was  fifty  years 
of  age.     Since  then  he  had  lived  by  himself  and 
worked  hard,  tilling  his  little  bit  of  land. 

Strange  stories  were  going  the  rounds  of  tha 

97 


98  Glenmornan 

barony  about  him.  His  neighbours  knew  that  he 
had  been  a  Cath-Breac  in  his  young  days,  and 
gossip  had  it,  that  he  had  often  stuck  a  red-hot 
dagger  through  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  Mother. 
For  this  he  was  supposed  to  receive  the  sum  of 
twelve  pounds.  The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that 
Oiney  belonged  to  the  Hibernian  Bible  Society,  a 
body  which  had  for  its  aim  the  propagation  of  the 
Gospels  through  the  medium  of  the  Irish  language. 
Oiney  became  a  teacher  of  the  Gospels  and  as  a 
teacher  he  received  a  certain  wage  from  the  Soci- 
ety.. The  Glenmornan  peasantry  were  not  loth 
in  aiding  and  abetting  Oiney  to  get  as  much  money 
as  possible  from  the  "dirty  straps  that  were  trying 
to  make  everybody  a  Protestant,"  and  the  young 
of  the  glen  came  to  the  old  man's  school  for  ex- 
amination once  a  year,  when  a  mysterious  Man 
In  Black  attended  Oiney's  house  to  ask  questions 
on  the  Gospel.  These  scholars  got  a  shilling 
apiece  when  the  examination  was  over,  and  for 
each  scholar  who  appeared  Oiney  got  another  shill- 
ing in  addition  to  his  regular  pay.  When  the  Man 
In  Black  left  Oiney's,  the  master  and  his  scholars 
had  a  night  of  feasting  and  drinking.  Duty-free 
whisky  was  plentiful  in  Glenmornan  then  and  the 
stills  were  always  at  work  on  the  hills. 

Being  a  Cath-Breac  gave  Oiney  a  bad  reputa- 
tion, however,  and  the  more  educated  people  of  the 
glen  did  not  like  it.  Old  Heel-Ball,  of  the  village 
of  Greenanore,  who  had  a  son  a  priest  and  a  daugh- 
ter a  nun,  disliked  Oiney,  not  so  much  owing  to 
the  fact  that  Oiney  was  a  Cath-Breac,  but  because 


Oiney  Leahy  99 

he  was  one  of  the  most  clever  makers  of  potheen 
in  the  parish.  The  publican  did  not  like  the 
potheen  makers,  for  their  illicit  stills  interfered 
with  his  legitimate  business.  He  complained  to 
the  village  priest,  old  Father  Devaney.  The  priest 
put  a  curse  on  Cath-Breacs  from  the  steps  of  the 
altar  and  Oiney  gave  up  teaching  the  Gospel  from 
that  day  forward. 

Oiney,  handy  man  with  his  fists,  was  also  very 
strong,  and  as  a  young  man  he  had  no  equal  at 
cudgel-play,  wrestling  or  fighting,  in  the  whole 
barony.  He  also  had  a  reputation  as  a  poacher, 
and  no  policeman  had  ever  caught  him  at  the  job. 
Once,  after  his  marriage,  a  process-server  came  to 
his  house  to  serve  him  with  a  process  for  the  rent. 
The  neighbours  went  into  the  house  an  hour  after- 
wards to  see  how  Oiney  was  dealing  with  the  man 
and  they  found  the  process-server,  sitting  in  front 
of  the  fire,  eating  the  process  while  Oiney  stood 
over  him  with  an  ash-plant  in  one  hand  and  a  bot- 
tle of  potheen  in  the  other.  The  ash-plant  was 
needed  to  give  the  man  an  appetite;  the  potheen 
would  help  to  wash  the  meal  down.  So  Oiney 
explained  to  the  neighbours. 

His  little  house  was  not  a  very  clean  one.  The 
outer  wall  had  once  been  whitewashed,  but  the 
lime,  having  grown  dim,  now  formed  a  back- 
ground for  various  layers  of  dirt  which  had  settled 
on  it.  These  layers,  drying  up,  grouped  them- 
selves into  strange  and  fantastic  patterns.  Near 
the  ground  the  wall  was  slimy  black  and  plastered 
with  dung,  but  further  up  towards  the  thatched 


ioo  Glenmornan 

roof,  on  which  the  corn  was  sprouting,  the  dirt 
lay  in  solitary  little  dots  that  stood  out  in  strong 
relief  against  the  white  lime. 

Inside,  Oiney  had  a  dresser  for  crocks  and  delf, 
a  bed,  with  a  straw  mattress,  a  fireplace  flush  with 
the  flagged  floor,  a  fiddle,  generally  out  of  tune, 
a  dog,  always  busy  hunting  fleas,  and  a  cat  with 
a  taste  for  eggs.  When  alone  and  not  busy,  Oiney 
was  either  speaking  to  the  animals,  or  playing  the 
fiddle. 

But  the  old  man  was  seldom  idle.  He  had  a 
ready  hand  for  any  job.  He  could  gueld  young 
cattle,  kill  a  pig,  apply  a  leech  to  a  sick  neigh- 
bour, treat  a  cow  for  disease,  build  a  creel,  let 
ropes  for  the  thatching  of  a  haystack,  cut  scollops 
for  a  house,  mediate  between  neighbours  who  had 
a  quarrel  about  trespassing  cattle  or  march  bound- 
aries, wash  a  corpse  and  dress  it  for  burial. 
Oiney  was  a  handy  man  and  very  willing  to  oblige 
a  friend  when  called  upon  to  do  so.  Despite  the 
fact  that  he  was  read  from  the  altar,  the  neigh- 
bours liked  the  old  man. 


II 

Doalty  Gallagher  left  His  Home  the  next  morn- 
ing and  made  his  road  over  the  braes  to  see  Oiney 
Leahy.  On  his  way  he  had  to  go  through  Breed 
Dermod's  bit  of  land,  and  there  he  saw  Sheila, 
the  girl  whom  he  had  heard  driving  the  cattle  in 
from  the  hill  on  the  previous  evening.  She  was 


Oiney  Leahy  101 

herding  a  cow  on  a  green  verge  of  grass  which 
ran  round  the  cornfield.  Now  and  again  when 
the  cow  reached  out  and  plucked  a  mouthful  of 
corn  Sheila  ran  up  with  a  switch  and  hit  the  ani- 
mal's flanks  with  it.  "Get  away  from  here,  ye 
wee  divil  ye,"  she  would  shout.  "Can't  ye  be- 
have yerself?"  Suddenly  the  girl  looked  round 
and  saw  Doalty  gazing  at  her.  The  blood  rose 
to  her  cheeks,  she  laughed  shyly  and  began  beat- 
ing the  green  corn  with  her  switch.  The  jcowj 
which  had  just  run  off,  came  across  the  field  to  the 
corn  again. 

"Away  with  ye,  ye  rogue,"  the  girl  shouted,  and 
ran  after  the  cow. 

Without  speaking  a  word  to  her,  Doalty  went 
across  to  Oiney's  house.  He  had  only  a  very  dim 
remembrance  of  Sheila,  but  he  recollected  that  she 
was  a  girl  going  to  school  with  two  turf  under 
her  arm  when  he  left  Ireland  seven  years  ago. 

Oiney  was  in  his  home  as  Doalty  went  in.  He 
found  the  old  man  feeding  the  dog  and  cat  with 
milk  from  a  hole  in  the  earthen  floor. 

"Ah!  it's  a  stranger  ye  are,  me  boyo,"  he  said, 
looking  up  and  seeing  the  young  man.  "It's  a 
long  while  since  ye've  crossed  this  door-step  now, 
isn't  it?" 

"A  long  while  indeed,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty. 

"Lie  down  widye,  won't  ye!"  said  the  old  man, 
catching  the  dog  by  the  tail  and  drawing  it  away 
from  the  milk.  "Let  the  wee  cat  have  her's.  It's 
wantin'  it  all,  ye  are,  yerself." 


102  Glenmornan 

He  gripped  the  dog  by  the  tail,  raised  it  in  air 
and  let  it  hang  head  downwards. 

"Not  a  yelp,"  he  said,  turning  to  Doalty. 
"That's  what  shows  ye  what  it's  like.  A  good  dog 
and  no  mistake.  And  the  cat,"  he  continued,  "it's 
a  wise  wee  divil.  Washin'  itself  behind  the  ears 
it  was  this  mornin'.  That's  a  sign  iv  rain." 

"How  does  it  know  that  the  rain  is  comin'?" 
Doalty  enquired. 

"Oh!  he  knows,"  said  the  old  man.  "An  ani- 
mal is  as  cute  as  anything.  Look  at  the  hare! 
He  can  see  out  iv  the  back  iv  his  head.  And  he 
has  two  holes  to  his  den,  one  at  the  back  and  one 
to  the  front.  He  never  sleeps  and  he  can  always 
see  what's  comin'  at  the  front  or  back  and  he  al- 
ways rests  with  his  tail  to  the  storm.  And  the 
weasel!  If  ye  annoy  him  he'll  spit  poison  into  yer 
milk.  I  saw  him  do  it.  'Twas  in  a  bowl  iv  milk 
that  I  left  outside  the  door  that  he  spit.  I  would 
be  a  dead  man  this  good  day  if  it  was  not  that  old 
Micky  Thady  of  Meenawarawor  came  over  here 
to  help  me  at  a  day's  work;  and  Micky,  he's  dead 
now,  God  rest  him!  never  did  any  harm  to  a 
weasel.  So  when  the  little  animal  saw  him  comin' 
it  came  up  again  and  turned  the  bowl  of  milk  over 
on  the  street.  It  did  not  want  Micky  to  be  killed 
because  its  spite  was  only  against  me.  Wasn't  that 
a  strange  thing  now  ?" 

"It  was  indeed,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty. 

"The  animals  have  more  sense  than  people  allow 
them,"  said  Oiney.  "There's  the  granaghay 
(hedgehog),  a  cute  fellow.  He'll  climb  an  apple 


Oiney  Leahy  103 

tree,  stick  his  pins  into  an  apple  and  carry  it  down 
on  his  back.  Then  there's  the  cat  that  can  come 
home  even  if  ye  lose  him  at  the  other  end  iv  the 
barony,  and  the  bee  that  can  find  his  nest  in  a  ten- 
acre  meadow.  Then  there's  the  trout  that  ye  put 
in  the  well  to  keep  it  clean  and  eat  the  worms.  I 
have  two  meself  in  the  well  under  the  rock  behind 
the  house.  When  one  of  these  will  die  he'll  turn, 
belly  up,  to  let  ye  know.  They  have  more  sense 
than  a  man  has.  Don't  ye  think  so,  yerself  ?" 

"I  think  so,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty.  "Where  are 
these  two  trout?" 

"I'll  show  them  to  ye  in  a  minit,"  said  Oiney. 
"Just  a  minit.  But  wait  now." 

The  old  man  went  across  to  the  bed  which  stood 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  groped  under  the  straw 
mattress  and  brought  out  a  big  bottle. 

"Not  a  word,  Doalty  Gallagher!"  he  said,  plac- 
ing his  left  eyelid  flush  on  his  cheek.  "Just  have 
a  drink  iv  this,  and  tell  me  what  ye  think  iv  it." 
He  poured  part  of  the  contents  into  a  bowl  and 
handed  it  to  the  young  man. 

"Drink  it,"  he  said. 

Doalty  drank. 

"It's  good  stuff,  Oiney,"  he  said.  "Where  did 
it  come  from?" 

"Not  a  word,  me  boyo,  not  a  word,"  said  the 
old  man,  and  he  winked  as  he  spoke.  "Seven  years 
old,  if  a  day,  and  duty  free.  But  they  never  make 
a  drop  like  it  in  the  hills  now.  It's  potheen,  and 
ye'll  go  far  before  ye'll  get  a  better  sup.  .  .  . 
Come  out  with  me  now  and  see  the  well." 


104  Glenmornan 

The  two  men  went  out  to  the  well,  which  was 
hidden  under  a  rock.  Oiney  bent  over  it,  shoved 
a  twig  under  a  stone,  which  lay  at  the  bottom. 
Two  trout  came  out,  circled  round  and  round  the 
Stone  for  a  moment,  then  disappeared. 

"They  know  me,"  said  the  old  man  proudly. 
"They're  not  in  the  least  afeeard!" 

"And  that's  me  wee  pratee  patch,"  he  said,  get- 
ting to  his  feet  and  pointing  at  a  plot  of  potatoes 
which  lay  behind  the  well. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Doalty.  "That  was  the  little 
field  that  it  took  you  years  to  make.  Had  to  carry 
it  up  from  the  holm?" 

"That's  right,"  said  the  old  man.  "There's 
some  blood  and  sweat  in  that  wee  patch,  I'm  tel- 
lin*  ye.  And  then  the  foreign  lady  that  came  to 
Glenmornan  some  years  back!"  The  old  man 
shook  his  head,  and  a  curl  of  superior  disdain 
showed  at  the  corner  of  his  lips. 

"Who  Was  she?"  asked  Doalty. 


in 


"Oh!  a  grand  lady  intirely,"  said  Oiney.  "She 
came  here,  and  her  goin'  to  cure  the  decline.  'Ye 
are  to  be  much  cleaner  than  ye  are/  she  says,  'and 
ye're  not  to  have  yer  duhals  (dung-heaps)  so  near 
yer  houses/  She  came  up  here  one  day  and 
pointed  out  where  the  duhal  was  to  be.  'Well  back 
there/  she  says,  and  points  to  that  wee  gubben  iv 
pratees.  'Dig  down  there/  she  says,  'and  make 


Oiney  Leahy  105 

a  hole,  and  it  will  do  well  for  a  midden.  It'll  be 
a  good  distance  away  from  the  house  and  then 
ye'll  be  free  from  disaise/  she  says.  I  looks  at 
her.  'Lady/  I  says,  'that  gubben  iv  land  was  at 
one  time  nothin'  but  a  bare  rock  and  I  set  about  to 
improve  it.  I  began  to  carry  up  creels  iv  clay  from 
the  holm,  and  every  creel  took  me  the  best  part  iv 
an  hour  to  carry.  I  did  it  all  barefut  too  and  I'm 
tellin'  ye  I  left  some  blood  and  sweat  on  the  wee 
caisin  (path).  It  took  me  hours  and  hours,  and 
days  and  days,  and  years  and  years  to  make  a  lit- 
tle patch  iv  land  fit  to  bear  a  crop.  'Now/  says 
I,  'if  I  make  a  duhal  in  the  middle  iv  that  spade- 
land,  it  will  take  away  the  ground-space  iv  four 
pratee  ridges.  Besides  that/  I  says,  'it's  not  the 
place  for  a  midden  at  all,  for  the  soft  iv  the  byre 
will  ceep  out  between  clay  and  stone  and  get  lost. 
Also,  how  am  I  to  get  the  soft  iv  the  byre  up  here?' 
I  asks.  'I  can't  carry  it  in  a  creel,  and  to  take  it 
in  a  bucket  will  take  the  whole  day,  every  day,  at 
the  job/  j 

"  'But  what  about  yer  health?'  outs  me  lady. 

"I  looks  at  her.  There's  not  much  bad  health 
about  here,  lady/  I  says.  'In  this,  a  townland  iv 
twelve  families,  there  are  fourteen  old  people  get- 
tin'  the  old  age  pensions.  And  people  have  to  die 
anyway,  when  God  sees  fit  to  call  them.  If  a  man 
has  decline  he'll  go,  it  doesn't  matter  how  far  away 
from  the  midden  he  is.'  .  .  .  But  sorrow  take  the 
woman  away,  the  foreigner!  Her  people  sucked 
the  marrow  out  iv  our  bones  in  the  old  days  and 
now  they  come  over  here  and  teach  us  how  to  keep 


106  Glenmornan 

in  good  health.  .  .  .  I'm  gettin'  the  old  age  pen- 
sion," said  the  old  man,  looking  at  Doalty,  "and 
it's  more  than  some  iv  them  will  ever  get,  though 
they  maybe  haven't  seen  a  midden  in  all  their 
life." 

Doalty  Gallagher  laughed,  but  it  was  not  at 
Oiney's  remark. 

"That  drop  of  potheen  you  gave  me,  Oiney,  was 
very  strong,  I  think,"  he  said.  "It  has  gone  to 
my  head." 

"Iv  course  it  has,"  said  Oiney,  and  a  good-hu- 
moured twinkle  stole  into  his  eyes.  "It's  the  best 
stuff  goin'." 

"Where  was  it  made?"  Doalty  asked. 

"Ah!"  said  Oiney,  winking  and  laughing. 
"Where  was  it  made?  Ah,  me  boyo,  that  can't  be 
said!  Ears  and  tongues  are  too  long  in  Glenmor- 
nan nowadays,  to  say  where  anything  is  made. 
Where  was  it  made?"  the  old  man  repeated,  with 
a  chuckle.  "I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  as  if  in 
answer  to  his  own  question.  "And  if  I  knew,  wild 
horses  wouldn't  draw  it  from  me." 

Doalty  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Will  you  have  one,  Oiney?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  keep  to  the  pipe,"  said  the  old  man,  pulling 
his  little  black  dudheen  from  his  pocket  and  put- 
ting it  in  his  mouth.  "There's  nothin'  like  a  clay," 
he  went  on.  "Look  up  there,  in  that  pratee  field, 
and  see  the  white  rocks." 

Doalty  looked  and  saw  a  number  of  white  stones 
placed  here  and  there  amidst  the  potato  tops. 

"What  are  they  for,  Oiney?"  he  asked. 


Oiney  Leahy  107 

"They're  markin'  me  pipes,"  said  the  old  man. 
"I  put  the  pipes  under  the  ground  there  and  let 
them  lie  for  a  while.  Then  I  dig  them  up  again, 
and  to  smoke  them  then,  it's  somethin'  not  to  be 
forgot  for  many  a  season.  It's  like  havin'  a 
woman's  arms  round  ye  and  ye  behind  a  holly  bush 
and  nobody  about." 

"So  you  like  the  women,  Oiney  V  Doalty  en- 
quired. 

"Once  on  a  time  I  would  go  far  to  spend  a  night 
with  one,"  said  the  old  man.  "That  was  when  I 
was  yer  size,  Doalty.  And  yerself,"  he  enquired. 
"Don't  ye  like  to  speak  to  them  at  all?  There's 
many  a  nice  girl  in  this  glen  now,  and  mad  after 
the  boys.  There's  Ellen  Kelly  and  Sheila  Dermod, 
both  iv  them  laughey  cutties  and  wild  for  the 
gasairs.  Did  ye  not  see  Sheila  this  mornin'  when 
ye  were  comin'  across  here?" 

"I  saw  her,  but  I  didn't  speak  to  her,"  said 
Doalty. 

"Young  Dennys  The  Drover  is  mad  after  her," 
said  the  old  man.  "But  she'll  not  have  anything 
to  do  with  him,  for  she  is  so  proud.  She'll  have 
to  have  a  man  shortly,  for  only  herself  and  her 
mother  are  workin'  the  farm  and  it's  too  much 
for  two  women  to  do.  But  Sheila!"  he  added. 
"As  nice  a  make  iv  a  girl  as  ever  put  white  feet 
on  green  grass !" 

"Her  father  died  shortly  after  I  went  away, 
didn't  he?"  Doalty  enquired. 

"That  was  the  time  he  died,  God  rest  him,"  said 
Oiney.  "He  was  a  thran  man,  as  busy  as  a  pis- 


io8  Glenmornan 

mire  and  hasty  as  a  brier.  .  .  .  Speak  a  man  fair 
he  would  not,  for  he  was  full  iv  malice,  which  is 
not  a  good  thing,  for  malice  kills  itself  with  its  own 
poison.  He  was  always  tellin'  lies  about  every- 
body, and  though  the  way  to  truth  is  but  one  and 
simple,  he  never  found  the  way  there.  God  for- 
give me  for  sayin'  the  hard  thing  about  the  dead, 
but  old  Shan  Dermod  was  a  hard  man  to  put  up 
with.  And  ye've  never  heard  how  he  died,  I  sup- 
pose? Well,  this  was  how  it  was.  He  was  lyin' 
on  his  death-bed  and  it  was  a  harvest  day,  and  the 
hay  was  lyin'  on  the  holms,  ready  for  the  tramp- 
cocks.  All  at  once  he  got  up  and  goes  to  the  door. 
'Breed,'  he  says,  turning  to  his  wife,  'there's  a  big 
black  cloud  over  Carnaween,  so  it's  better  for  yer- 
self  and  Sheila  to  go  out  and  gather  the  hay  in 
at  once.'  He  goes  back  to  his  bed,  and  just  as  he 
lay  down,  he  heard  the  rain  rattlin'  on  the  window 
panes.  Then  he  dies,  God  rest  his  soul!  He'd 
have  died  happier  if  he  went  away  an  hour  earlier. 
...  I  hope  it  won't  be  rainin'  the  morrow,"  said 
Oiney,  as  if  the  memory  of  Shan  Dermod's  death 
had  turned  his  mind  to  the  weather.  "I'm  goin'  to 
get  some  iv  me  turf  rikkled  the  morrow  and  young 
Dennys  The  Drover  is  comin'  to  give  me  a  hand." 

"I'll  come  too  and  help  you  if  you'll  let  me," 
said  Doalty. 

"Come  if  ye  can  and  I'll  be  glad  iv  yer  help," 
said  the  old  man.  "I'll  be  needin'  the  new  turf 
in  a  wee  while,  for  I  haven't  many  left  over  from 
last  year  now.  So  ye'll  come,  will  ye,  Doalty?" 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  said  the  young  man. 


Oiney  Leahy  109 

"Well,  a  dhrop  to  sweeten  our  partin',"  said 
Oiney.  "Come  in  with  me  to  the  house  and  have 
a  drink  afore  ye  go  back  across  the  brae." 


IV 


Doalty  went  up  to  the  hill  with  Oiney  Leahy 
and  Dennys  The  Drover  the  next  morning.  They 
had  their  breakfasts  at  Oiney's  house  and  Oiney 
brought  out  the  black  bottle  again.  The  bottle  was 
filled  with  potheen  to  the  neck. 

"So  you've  got  some  more,"  said  Doalty. 

"Ah !  a  wee  drop,"  said  .the  old  man.  "It  was 
the  fairies  that  gave  it  to  me." 

"If  the  polis  sees  them  fairies  it'll  be  a  black 
day  for  them,"  said  Dennys  The-  Drover,  lying 
back  on  his  chair  and  lighting  his  pipe. 

"Isn't  it  a  good  thing  that  the  rain  didn't  come 
this  mornin',"  said  the  old  man,  as  if  to  change 
the  conversation.  "I  thought  that  it  would  be  rain 
after  the  cat  was  washin'  himself  behind  the  ears 
yesterday." 

Dennys  The  Drover  winked  at  Doalty,  as  if  to 
show  that  he  thought  old  Oiney  was  a  fool. 

Doalty  liked  Dennys,  liked  his  hearty  laugh,  his 
frank,  open  countenance  and  alert  and  supple  fig- 
ure. Dennys  had  a  quiet  look  of  assurance  in  his 
eyes  and  a  proud  bearing;  in. fact,  he  had  the  car- 
riage of  a  young  man  who  had  a  very  high  estima- 
tion of  his  own  worth.  When  Doalty  asked  him 
a  question,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  pondered  for  a 


no  Glenmornan 

minute  before  answering.  No  doubt  he  was  en- 
deavouring to  discover  why  the  young  man  back 
from  beyond  the  water  was  anxious  to  know  so 
many  things.  But  The  Drover  liked  Doalty.  "He 
doesn't  dress  up  like  a  shop-boy  or  a  teaman/' 
Dennys  said  to  Oiney  that  morning  when  he  saw 
the  young  journalist  coming  across  the  fields  to 
the  day's  work.  "But  ye  never  can  tell  what  the 
like  of  him  is  up  to,"  he  added,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  was  not  as  yet  certain  of  his  own  judg- 
ment. 

When  speaking  to  Oiney,  Dennys  was  never  at 
a  loss  for  words.  He  spoke  rapidly  and  without 
the  awkwardness  which  he  showed  when  convers- 
ing with  young  Gallagher. 

"We'll  get  up  to  the  hill  now,  me  boys,"  said 
Oiney,  when  breakfast  was  at  an  end.  "It's  a 
long  step  from  here  to  the  top  iv  the  hill.  So,  God 
with  us!  and  we'll  get  away." 

The  journey  from  the  house  to  the  bog  was  a 
long,  trying  one,  and  Doalty  was  glad  when  he  got 
there.  The  turf  lay  all  over  the  spread-field, 
bundled  together  into  little  heaps.  A  fair  amount 
of  the  turf,  not  yet  ready  for  stacking,  but  dry 
enough  for  a  slow  fire,  had  to  be  built  in  clamps. 
A  clamp  is  a  narrow  little  heap  in  which  the  turf 
could  dry  a  little  more  before  the  stacking  season 
came  round.  In  the  event  of  wet  weather  com- 
ing, the  clamps  would  hold  through  the  winter, 
though  the  turf  in  them  might  not  be  the  best  qual- 
ity for  the  fire.  Still  it  was  better  to  have  turf 
half -dry  than  to  have  none  at  all. 


Oiney  Leahy  III 

From  the  spread-field  Doalty  could  see  the  whole 
of  Glenmornan  below  him,  the  white  road  running 
through  the  meadows  from  the  mountain  down  to 
the  village  of  Greenanore,  and  the  river,  a  sliver 
of  silver,  that  sparkled  brilliantly  under  the  rays 
of  the  sun.  A  light  haze  rose  from  the  meadows 
and  cornfields,  but  Carnaween  and  Sliav-a-Tuagh 
stood  aloof,  clear  cut  against  the  blue  sky,  looking 
at  one  another.  The  little  thatched  houses  rested 
snug  and  warm  under  the  cliffs,  the  cows  were  out 
on  the  pastures,  eating  the  green  grass,  and  the 
young  children  were  herding  them.  Sounds  of 
laughter  and  singing  could  be  heard,  rising  shrill 
and  clear  over  the  roar  of  the  waters  falling  from 
the  rocks.  .  .  .  Everything  down  there  was  in 
amity  and  repose.  Never  had  Doalty  beheld  such 
peace.  A  great  happiness,  not  unmixed  with  sor- 
row, filled  his  soul.  Conscious  life,  at  that  mo- 
ment, seemed  a  very  meagre  interval  to  him,  a  mere 
moment,  giving  so  little  time  to  enjoy  the  great 
glory  and  wonder  of  created  things. 

"That's  Sheila  Dermod  that  I'm  seein'  down 
there,  isn't  it?"  asked  Oiney,  fixing  his  eyes  on  a 
green  field  in  which  a  young  barefooted  girl  with 
a  shawl  over  her  head  was  herding  her  cow. 

"Sheila  it  is,"  said  Dennys  The  Drover. 

"A  fine  girl  she  is,  isn't  she?"  asked  the  old  man, 
fixing  a  pair  of  roguish  eyes  on  the  young  man. 

"Not  so  bad,"  said  Dennys. 

"She's  wild  after  ye,"  said  Oiney. 

"He  thinks  that  every  girl  in  the  parish  is  mad 
after  me,"  said  Dennys,  looking  at  Doalty  and  al- 


112  Glenmornan 

luding  to  Oiney.  "I  do  find  them  willing  to  dance 
with  me,"  he  continued,  not  without  a  certain 
pride,  "but  that  is  nothin'.  They  must  have  their 
bit  iv  fun,  just  the  same  as  ourselves." 

"I  know  the  kind  iv  fun  ye  want,"  said  Oiney 
with  a  laugh,  winking  at  Dennys,  and  poking  him 
on  the  chest  with  a  miry  thumb.  "Ye're  just  the 
same  as  I  was  when  I  was  yer  own  age.  And  the 
girls  I  used  to  have  hangin'  about  me.  Ah!" — 
he  shook  his  white  head  mournfully — "I  don't  think 
they  ever  told  the  truth  about  their  doin's  at  con- 
fession after  I  spent  a  while  with  them,"  he  added. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Doalty  with  a  laugh,  which 
could  not  hide  his  interest  in  the  old  man's  avowal. 

"Why?  Ah!  me  boy,  why?"  said  Oiney,  draw- 
ing himself  up  and  pulling  his  chin  in.  "If  they 
told  everything  that  took  place  between  themselves 
and  me  ye  would  see  all  the  girls  in  Glenmornan 
goin'  to  Lough  Derg  on  their  two  knees.  I  was  a 
funny  bucko  then.  .  .  .  And  Dennys  The  Drover! 
He's  just  the  same  now  as  I  was  then.  I  was  just 
the  same  cut  iv  a  boy.  And  ye  do  have  yer  bit  iv 
fun  with  the  girls,  don't  ye  now,  Dennys?" 

"I  do  iv  course,  Oiney,"  said  the  young  man. 
"I  try  and  have  any  fun  that's  goin'." 

"And  what  sort  of  fun  is  that?"  Doalty  asked, 
looking  at  the  young  man. 

Dennys  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then 
opened  them  again. 

"Oh,  just  any  kind  iv  fun  at  all,"  he  said  in  a 
non-committal  voice,  nodding  his  head  as  he  spoke. 

"That's  the  way  to  hide  it,"  said  Oiney  in  a 


Oiney  Leahy  113 

bantering  voice.  "Yer  fun  can't  bear  the  light  iv 
the  world  on  it,  Dennys.  I  mind  once,  a  good 
many  years  back  it  was,  and  it  was  at  a  hay-stack 
that  old  Shan  Dermod — God  rest  him ! — was  build- 
ing. I  had  a  drop  too  much  in  me  when  night 
came  on,  and  if  my  legs  were  stiddy  my  head  was 
in  a  maze.  That's  always  the  way  with  me  in  the 
drink.  Well,  I  got  up  to  me  feet  in  Shan  Dermod's 
house  when  all  the  townland  were  there  and  I  says, 
: — I  was  told  of  what  I  said  afterwards,  for  I  didn't 
mind  a  word  iv  it  meself, — I  says,  'Hide  it  as  much 
as  ye  like,  but  one  person  is  as  bad  as  another  in 
this  glen.  There's  a  down-drop  in  every  thatch,' 
says  I,  'and  I'm  goin'  to  tell  everything  that  bad 
report  has  about  everybody  in  the  townland.  Aye/ 
says  I,  'if  the  priest  iv  the  parish  was  here  himself 
I  could  tell  him  things  about  his  own  doin's  that 
ud  make  him  redden  to  the  butts  iv  his  ears.  Now 
I'll  tell  ye/  I  goes  on,  'tell  ye  all  yer  sins  that  ye 
think  are  hidden,  for  ye  are  all  sinners  in  the  eyes 
iv  God  and  man/  I  was  as  wild  as  a  March  hare 
then,  and  there  was  no  stoppin'  me  when  I  made 
up  me  mind  to  go  on.  Well,  widye  believe  me! 
but  not  a  soul  stopped  in  the  house  to  hear  what  I 
had  to  say  barrin'  Sheila  Dermod,  and  she  couldn't 
leave  the  house,  for  she  was  then  a  child  in  the 
cradle.  But  the  others  went  out  and  I  often  won- 
der what  it  was  that  took  Anna  Gorth  first  out  iv 
the  house,  and  her  holdin'  up  to  be  the  holiest 
woman  in  the  barony." 

"But  who  told  you  about  it  afterwards,  seein' 


114  Glenmornan 

that  ye  didn't  remember  it  yerself  ?"  asked  Dennys 
,The  Drover. 

"Who,  guess,  but  Owen  Briney,  the  sly  cadger !" 
said  Oiney.  "He  told  me  all  about  it  the  next 
mornin'.  'And  ye  went  out  too?'  I  says  to  him. 
'I  didn't  want  to  stay  in  when  all  went  out,'  says 
Owen,  and  be  the  way  he  spoke  ye  would  think  that 
butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth.  'So  ye  stayed 
outside  iv  the  door,'  says  I,  'and  listened  to  hear 
what  I  said?' 

"  'I  did  not,  for  I  didn't  want  to  hear  any  bad 
about  meself,'  he  says,  laughin'  as  if  to  put  it  by. 

"  'Ye  would  endure  that,'  says  I,  'to  hear  bad 
about  yer  neighbours.'  And  if  ye,  yerself,  Dennys 
<The  Drover,  were  there  that  night,  ye'd  have  gone 
out  too,"  said  the  old  man. 

"I'd  have  been  one  iv  the  first,"  said  Dennys, 
laughing  as  if  a  compliment  had  been  paid  him. 


"Well,  we've  done  very  well  for  the  mornin'," 
said, Oiney  Leahy,  as  the  three  men  sat  down  for 
their  dinner  at  noon.  A  peat  fire  was  ablaze  in 
the  heather  and  on  it  a  can  of  tea  was  bubbling 
merrily.  Oiney  had  brought  up  the  food  for  dinner 
in  the  morning.  The  meal  consisted  of  homemade 
bread,  baked  by  Oiney,  butter,  eggs  and  tea. 
There  were  three  eggs  for  each  man.  All  were 
hungry  and  they  left  a  very  poor  decency  bite  for. 
the  birds  when  the  meal  was  at  an  end. 


Oiney  Leahy  115 

"Yes,  ye've  worked  very  well  the  two  iv  ye," 
said  Oiney  as  he  lay  back  in  the  heather  and  lit  his 
pipe.  "And  Doalty,  boy,  ye've  made  a  good  fist 
iv  the  work,  which  is  more  than  some  who  come 
back  from  foreign  parts  can  do.  Now  the  shop- 
boys,  the  scrape-the-pots,  look  at  them !  When  they 
come  back,  it's  a  collar  and  tie  they  have  on,  all  the 
time  they  are  here.  Indeed,  it's  not  much  iv  their 
time  they  spend  here  at  all.  Glenmornan  is  not 
quality  enough  for  them  and  it's  all  the  while  down 
in  Greenanore  that  they  are  'tryin'  to  get  on  the 
skift  with  Heel-Ball's  daughter  or  somebody  like 
that.  But  yerself,  Doalty,"  said  the  old  man,  and 
a  note  of  deep  feeling  crept  into  his  voice,  "yerself 
is  just  like  one  iv  ourselves." 

"And  damn  it,  Oiney,  why  shouldn't  I?"  asked 
Doalty.  "Could  I  have  any  better  company  than 
you  now?" 

The  old  man  fixed  a  startled  look  on  Doalty. 
Oiney  had  spent  so  much  of  his  time  defending 
himself  against  censure,  imaginary  and  otherwise, 
that  he  was  utterly  at  a  loss  when  confronted  with 
words  of  praise.  Now,  he  sought  security  by 
changing  the  conversation. 

"Ye  can  carry  a  good  creel  iv  turf,  and  swing  it 
on  yer  shoulder  almost  as  good  as  Dennys  him- 
self," Oiney  remarked. 

"He's  every  bit  as  good  as  me,"  said  Dennys. 

"You  are  far  and  away  too  modest,  Dennys," 
said  Doalty.  "If  I  had  shoulders  and  arms  like 
you  I  would  become  a  boxer  or  a  wrestler  or  some- 
thing like  that.  You  are  wasting  yourself  here." 


n6  Glenmornan 

"Do  ye  think  that  I'd  make  much  iv  a  wrestler?" 
asked  Dennys,  and  a  look  of  interest  lit  up  his  face. 
"I  never  tried  it  much,  but  when  I  did,  I  was  fit 
to  hold  my  own." 

"Ha!  ye  limb  iv  evil,  ye!"  laughed  Oiney.  "Al- 
most fit  to  hold  yer  own !  Listen  t'ye !  The  night 
the  four  polismen  tried  to  collar  ye,  ye  almost  held 
yer  own!  Ye  couldn't  tell  a  Greenanore  polisman 
from  a  bundle  iv  bandages  for  six  weeks  after  ye 
had  finished  with  them.  Ah!  no,  ye're  not  able  to 
hold  yer  own,  Dennys  The  Drover,  me  boy,"  said 
Oiney,  and  an  ironical  smile  showed  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  amused  at  the  modesty  of  Dennys  The 
Drover. 

"Can  ye  wrestle  at  all,  Doalty?"  asked  the  young 
man. 

"I  used  to — a  little — at  one  time,"  said  Doalty. 

"Will  ye  show  me  something  about  it — the  way 
ye  have  of  doin'  it  and  that?" 

"I  don't  mind,  in  the  least,"  said  Doalty,  getting 
to  his  feet.  "I'll  show  you  some  of  the  throws  that 
I  learned.  ...  If  I  fling  you  over  my  shoulders 
you  are  not  to  be  annoyed,  mind.  I'll  show  you 
how  it's  done  afterwards,  and  you'll  find  that  you'll 
be  much  better  at  it  than  me  when  you  have  a  little 
practice." 

The  two  young  men,  their  sleeves  thrust  up, 
their  breasts  bare,  faced  one  another  on  the 
heather. 

"We'll  try  catch-as-catch-can  at  first,"  said 
Doalty.  "It's  the  kind  done  away  from  here.  .  .  . 
In  this  way.  .  .  .  You  catch  me  wherever  you  can 


Oiney  Leahy  117 

and  try  and  throw  me  down  to  the  heather.  When 
you  get  my  shoulders  square  with  the  ground  it 
will  be  a  fall  in  your  favour.  Now,  try  and  grip 
me." 

Oiney,  sitting  down  and  smoking,  put  the  pipe 
in  his  pocket  and  fixed  himself  in  a  contemplative 
attitude.  The  one-time  master  cudgel-player  of 
the  Barony  of  Burrach  was  eager  to  see  every 
move  in  the  game.  The  first  move  mystified  the 
old  man.  He  saw  Doalty  and  Dennys  come  to 
grips  and  the  next  instant  Drover  Dennys  was 
lying  flat  on  the  ground. 

"Well,  how  is  it  done?"  asked  the  old  man,  get- 
ting to  his  feet  and  looking  at  Doalty  with  eyes 
that  were  full  of  new  interest. 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Doalty,  whose  face  was 
flushed  and  red  with  excitement.  "You  put  your 
arm  round  my  neck,  turn  your  back  on  me,  shove 
your  buttocks  under  my  stomach  and  bend  down 
as  sharp  as  you  can  and  pull  me  with  you.  Then 
you'll  do  the  same  to  me  as  I've  just  done  to  Drover 
Dennys. 

Oiney  did  as  he  was  directed  and  bent  down, 
pulling  Doalty  with  him.  In  some  mysterious  man- 
ner the  young  man  left  his  arm  and  when  Oiney 
looked  round  he  saw  Doalty  lying  in  the  heather. 

"Ye  went  over  me  back  just  like  a  feather,"  said 
the  old  man,  in  a  pleased  voice.  "Ah!  I  wished  I 
knew  that  trick  in  the  old  times.  I  would  have  let 
them  see.  .  .  ." 

Two  hours  afterward  Oiney  looked  at  the  sun, 
then  at  his  own  bleeding  arm,  at  Dennys'  torn  shirt 


n8  Glenmornan 

and  Doalty's  peat-covered  face.  Wrestling  prac- 
tice on  the  Glenmornan  hills  on  a  hot  July  day  is 
a  weary  pastime. 

"It's  past  three  be  the  sun  now,  and  it's  time  to 
be  clampin'  some  more  iv  the  turf,"  said  Oiney, 
his  voice  betraying  his  reluctance  to  leave  a  sport 
into  which  he  had  entered  with  an  enthusiasm  as 
great  as  that  of  the  younger  men. 


VI 


Having  taken  a  few  sups  from  the  bottle  of 
potheen  which  Oiney  Leahy  handed  him,  Doalty 
bade  the  old  man  good-night  and  left  for  home, 
feeling  weary  after  the  hard  day's  work.  Dennys 
The  Drover  remained  behind  and  Doalty  guessed 
that  part  of  their  conversation  would  be  about  him 
when  he  left  them,  and  also  about  the  fairies  who, 
now  and  again,  supplied  potheen  to  the  inhabitants 
of  Glenmornan. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  Sliav-a-Tuagh  and 
behind  that  giant  crest  the  sky  was  flushed  and 
glowing.  Red  rays  slanted  down  the  braes  of  Glen- 
mornan, colouring  the  waving  grasses  in  the  holms 
and  gleaming  on  the  ripples  of  the  river  Owena- 
wadda.  Overhead,  in  the  clear,  blue  sky  a  flight 
of  crows  was  winging  its  way  homewards  to  the 
rookery  in  Meenawarawor.  The  sparrows  were 
chirping  in  the  bushes  and  a  dog  was  barking  some- 
where on  the  hills  where  the  young  girls  of  Strana- 
meera  were  bringing  their  cattle  home  for  the  milk- 


Oiney  Leahy  119 

ing.  The  streams  were  reeling  over  the  rocks  and 
Doalty  could  see  the  foam  flying  in  air  as  the  tor- 
rents bounded  down  to  the  river.  The  sound  of 
the  waterfalls  made  the  young  man's  eyes  and  ears 
quiver  as  he  heard  it.  His  nostrils  were  filled  with 
the  scent  of  the  glen,  of  the  growing  grass,  the 
peatfires  and  the  generous  earth,  and  his  heart  was 
deeply  moved  by  it  all. 

His  life  was  mapped  out  clearly  now,  his  future 
career  defined.  It  almost  seemed  that  whatever 
would  come  to  him  now,  it  would  be  the  work  of 
his  own  hands.  He  was  living  simply,  a  peasant, 
beset  with  the  cares  and  worries  of  a  peasant's  life 
and  he  was  very  happy.  He  had  forsaken  every- 
thing that  would  make  for  fame  and  advancement 
in  the  field  of  life;  he  had  put  all  that  London  held 
for  him  aside,  and  his  mood  of  self-abnegation 
pleased  him.  "Will  this  happiness  last?"  he  asked 
himself  and  answered  in  an  audible  voice,  "Of 
course  it  will,  for  I  am  doing  the  right  thing." 

Deep  in  thoughts  like  these  he  strode  across 
Owen  Briney's  land  and  entered  a  hazel  clump  on 
Breed  Dermod's  farm  and  it  was  here  he  met 
Sheila. 

The  girl  was  sitting  on  the  ground  under  a  hazel 
bush,  her  bare  feet  tucked  up  under  her  skirt,  her 
head  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  her  hands  busy  knitting 
a  stocking.  As  Doalty  entered  the  glade,  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  fixed  a  pair  of  big,  blue, 
startled  eyes  on  the  young  man.  He  looked  at  her 
and  felt  that  a  thing  more  beautiful  he  had  never 
seen  or  imagined  in  all  his  life.  The  young  girl 


120  Glenmornan 

gazed  at  him,  a  blush  mantling  her  cheeks;  her 
mouth  a  little  open,  the  hand  which  held  the  stock- 
ing hanging  by  her  side.  The  bold  sweep  of  her 
high  eyebrows,  the  straight  nose,  the  nostrils,  dilat- 
ing slightly,  as  if  to  the  promptings  of  some  hidden 
passion,  the  eyes  glowing  and  darkening  at  the 
same  moment,  the  splendid  shoulders  and  full 
throat  caused  a  strange  yearning  to  rise  in  Doalty's 
heart.  But  he  felt  more  courageous  now  than  on 
the  previous  morning.  When  he  saw  her  then,  he 
could  not  summon  confidence  enough  to  enter  into 
conversation  with  the  girl.  But  now — Oiney 
Leahy's  potheen  was  very  strong  and  gave  a  man 
heart. 

The  girl  was  still  looking  at  him,  apparently 
debating  as  to  whether  she  should  run  away  or 
remain  where  she  was. 

"Good  evening,  Sheila  Dermod,"  said  Doalty 
Gallagher. 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  girl  in  a  shy  whisper, 
letting  one  of  her  knit-needles  drop  to  the  ground. 
Neither  herself  or  Doalty  saw  it  fall. 

"You've  got  so  big  since  I  saw  you  last,"  said 
Doalty,  "I  hardly  know  you." 

"And  I  hardly  would  know  yerself,"  said  Sheila 
Dermod,  making  this  remark,  because  it  was  the 
only  thing  she  could  think  of  saying. 

Doalty  was  at  a  loss  for  a  moment.  He  looked 
diffidently  at  Sheila's  bare  feet  as  if  to  find  a  topic 
for  conversation.  Then  he  turned  his  glance  to 
her  face  again.  The  girl  was  blushing  crimson, 
ashamed  no  doubt  at  being  seen  barefooted. 


Oiney  Leahy  121 

"You  are  such  a  beautiful  girl,"  said  Doalty 
boldly,  a  little  amazed  at  his  own  coolness. 

"Am  I?"  asked  Sheila  in  an  almost  indifferent 
voice,  which  might  mean  that  the  compliment 
would  be-  gratefully  received  from  a  man  more  to 
her  liking.  She  laughed  and  her  nose  puckered 
up  slightly. 

"Ye've  been  drinkin'  some  of  Oiney  Leahy?s 
potheen  I  suppose,"  she  added. 

"No,  I've  not,"  Doalty  replied,  colouring  a  little. 

"Oiney  would  not  be  pleased  if  ye  went  out  iv  his 
house  without  a  drink,"  said  Sheila,  as  if  she  knew 
that  Doalty  was  not  telling  her  the  truth. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  here?"  Doalty  en- 
quired. "Knitting  your  stocking?" 

"That's  what  I  was  doin',"  said  the  girl,  pulling 
her  shawl  tighter  about  her  shoulders  and  turning 
half  round  as  if  with  the  intention  of  going  into  her 
home. 

"Sheila,"  said  Doalty  in  a  low  voice  and  coughed 
awkwardly  as  he  spoke. 

"What  is  it?"  she  enquired,  turning  round  and 
gazing,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  setting  sun  which  was  reflected  in  little  points 
of  fire  in  her  eyes.  Her  beautiful  hair  straggled 
out  in  little  curls  from  under  her  shawl;  one  hand 
held  the  stocking  and  the  fingers  of  the  other  were 
fumbling  with  her  petticoat. 

"What  is  it  that  ye're  goin'  to  say  to  me?"  asked 
Sheila  again,  when  she  had  looked  in  silence  at 
Doalty  for  a  moment. 


122  Glenmornan 

"Nothing,  only  that  you  are  very  beautiful," 
said  Doalty,  hardly  recognising  his  own  voice. 

"Then  ye  must  be  drunk,"  said  the  girl,  with 
a  laugh,  and  she  ran  away  through  the  hazel 
bushes,  leaving  the  young  man  staring  after  her. 
In  a  moment  she  was  out  of  sight,  but  presently 
she  stuck  her  head  through  the  branches  again, 
fixed  a  mischievous  glance  at  Doalty  and  a  con- 
fused smile  showed  on  her  face. 

"Good-night,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  she  called  in 
a  loud  whisper,  peeping  slyly  out  from  under  her 
eyelids. 

"Good-night,  Sheila  Dermod,"  Doalty  replied, 
and  Sheila  disappeared. 

"She  thinks  that  I  am  drunk,"  he  repeated  to 
himself,  as  he  bent  down  and  lifted  a  shiny  needle 
from  the  ground.  Then  he  made  his  way  home- 
wards, pondering  over  the  girl's  remarks. 

"Maybe  I  am  drunk,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  de- 
cision after  a  while.  "I  wouldn't  behave  as  I've 
done  if  I  was  sober.  .  .  .  And  Drover  Denny s  is 
going  to  marry  her  one  of  these  days,"  he  mused 
as  he  was  entering  his  mother's  house.  "I  hope 
he  does,  for  she  is  a  good  girl  and  he  couldn't  do 
better.  .  .  .  But  such  a  throat  and  chin  and  such 
eyes.  .  .  .  That's  the  reason.  .  .  .  I'm  drunk." 

He  kept  continually  repeating  this  latter  remark 
during  the  evening,  repeating  it  with  the  peculiar 
insistence  of  a  man  who  wishes  to  believe  it. 


Oiney  Leahy  123 


VII 


The  days  passed  quietly  for  Doalty  Gallagher 
and  he  felt  very  happy  and  contented  in  Glenmor- 
nan.  London,  its  rush,  worry  and  excitement, 
seemed  to  belong  to  an  age  beyond  recall;  when 
people  whom  he  had  known,  Lady  Ronan,  George 
and  Myra  recurred  in  Doalty's  memory,  they 
seemed  to  be  shapeless  impressions  of  a  troubled 
dream.  Soon  these  impressions  would  be  dulled 
beyond  restoring. 

He  got  out  of  bed  in  the  early  morning,  sprinted 
down  to  the  river  Owenawadda,  and  plunged  in 
for  a  dip.  Now  and  then  Drover  Dennys  accom- 
panied him  and  both  went  into  the  stream  together. 
By  the  time  Doalty  got  back  to  his  house,  his* 
breakfast  was  laid  out  and  all  the  family  was  afoot, 
Maura  The  Rosses  and  Norah  busy  with  the  house- 
work, Teague  at  work  in  the  fields,  Hughie  Beag 
playing  with  the  puppy,  his  favourite  pastime,  and 
Kitty  getting  ready  to  go  to  the  convent  school  of 
Greenanore.  Amongst  other  branches  of  educa- 
tion, the  young  girl  was  learning  cookery,  and  it 
was  said  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  skilful  cooks 
at  the  school  and  she  could  make  dishes  fit  for  the 
table  of  a  queen.  But  she  never  made  those  dishes 
at  home  because  suitable  ingredients  could  not  be 
purchased  in  the  village.  Even  if  they  could  be 
obtained,  there  was  not  an  oven  in  the  whole 
glen.  .  .  . 

Oiney  Leahy  heard  of  the  young  girl's  tuition 


124  Glenmornan 

in  the  culinary  art,  and  what  he  said,  when  he 
heard  it,  was  common  gossip  in  Glenmornan  for 
many  weeks. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  learnin'  is  comin'  to," 
said  Oiney.  "The  young  girsas  go  down  to  Grena- 
nore  and  they  learn  to  make  the  grandest  meals  in 
the  world,  and  when  they  come  back  home  at  night 
they  have  to  feed  on  scaddan  and  sgiddins.  If 
they  were  learned  to  cook  just  like  their  mothers, 
it  would  be  all  right ;  but  here  they  go  down  to  the 
town  and  learn  how  to  cook  what  God  doesn't  send 
us.  It's  a  sin  and  a  shame  the  kind  iv  learnin' 
that's  in  it  nowadays.  .  .  .  The  other  day  I  went 
over  to  Phelim  Biddy  Wor  to  get  the  len  iv  a  garra 
madagh*  and  Phelim's  wee  gasair  was  sittin'  on 
the  stool  be  the  fire  and  his  head  sunk  in  a  book. 
What  is  it  that  ye're  readin',  Gasair  Phelim?'  I 
put  to  him. 

"  I'm  readin'  about  the  many  miles  that  this 
world  is  away  from  the  sun/  he  tells  me. 

"  'And  how  many  will  it  be  now?"  I  asks  him. 

"  'So  and  so,"  he  answers  me. 

"  'And  how  many  miles  is  it  from  the  head-end 
iv  the  Barony  iv  Burrach  to  the  butt  end  iv  the 
Rosses?'  I  asks  him. 

"  Then  I  don't  know,  Oiney  Leahy/  he  says. 

"So  I  don't  know  what  kind  iv  learnin'  it  is 
that's  comin5  to  the  people  now,"  said  Oiney. 
"They  learn  how  to  cook  things  that  they  never 
see  and  to  measure  distances  that  are  no  good  to 
man  or  beast.  The  lady  that  came  to  make  me 

*A  creel-rest. 


Oiney  Leahy  125 

move  the  duhal  away  from  the  front  iv  me  house 
must  have  learnin'  just  the  same  as  that.  De- 
stroyin'  me  bit  iv  a  farm  just  to  cure  me  from  the 
decline  that  I  never  had.  I  would,  if  it  was  left 
to  me,  rather  die  with  the  decline  than  with  starva- 
tion. .  .  ." 

During  the  day  Doalty  Gallagher  used  to  see  the 
old  man  at  his  work,  delving  the  jealous  earth,  his 
old  back  crooked  over  his  spade,  his  face  stream- 
ing with  sweat  and  his  mind  full  of  vague  thoughts, 
reveries  and  dreams  of  old  times.  The  old  man 
worked  slowly,  silently  and  without  any  apparent 
waste  of  effort.  But  with  a  judicious  expenditure 
of  strength  and  a  steadiness  that  brooked  no  dis- 
traction, old  Oiney  on  the  spadeland,  was  a  worker 
second  to  none  in  Glenmornan. 

Oiney  spoke  about  his  house  one  day  when 
Doalty  Gallagher  went  across  to  see  him. 

"It's  not  much  to  look  at  now,  is  it,  Doalty?" 
he  asked.  "But  one  time  ye  could  travel  far  before 
ye  could  set  two  eyes  on  a  neater  house,"  he  con- 
tinued. "Ah!  Doalty,  if  ye  saw  it  when  I  took  in 
me  wife,  God  rest  her,  to  it.  It  was  then  as  clean 
as  the  white  stone  at  the  bottom  iv  a  spring  well, 
with  a  floor  hand-smooth,  and  not  a  trace  iv  dirt 
on  it,  with  thatch  that  threw  the  water  off,  just 
like  the  wing  iv  a  wild-duck,  and  walls  that  were  as 
white  as  the  shell  iv  an  egg.  It  would  do  a  man's 
heart  good  to  look  on  it. 

"And  the  way  the  two  iv  us  were  gettin'  on  and 
puttin'  a  bit  by.  There  was  milk  and  to  spare  from 
the  cows  in  the  byre,  and  the  corn  was  sproutin* 


126  Glenmornan 

on  the  brae-face,  and  Breed  used  to  do  good  work 
at  the  spinnin'  iv  the  wool.  That  was  enough  to 
make  any  man  glad,  for  what  did  they  say  of  old? 
What,  but  this : — Three  slender  things  support  the 
world  best :  the  thin  blade  iv  corn  on  the  holm,  the 
thin  stream  iv  milk  into  the  pail  and  the  thin  thread 
runnin'  through  the  fingers  iv  a  woman.  And  the 
cloth  that  used  to  be  made  then,  Doalty!  It  sat 
well  on  man  and  woman;  elegant  and  comfortable 
it  was  and  it  was  fit  to  wear  out  the  years  of  a 
hearty  life.  .  .  .  But  now,  look  at  the  times  that's 
in  it!  ... 

"But  maybe  things  will  change  a  bit  some  day," 
he  added,  after  a  short  silence.  "Maybe  I'll  be 
well-to-do  yet.  For  ye  know,  Doalty,  that  I  can 
work  as  well  as  any  man  in  the  glen  yet  and  I  can 
go  up  and  down  that  hill  for  turf,  just  as  easy  as 
I  was  able  to  do  it  thirty  years  ago  when  I  was  a 
youngster.  .  .  .  And  ye  did  see  me  at  the  rassle 
the  other  day  on  the  bog.  I  was  fit  to  get  me  hand 
in  at  it  very  quick  and  I  made  a  good  fist  iv  it  afore 
.we  stopped,  didn't  I  now?" 

"You  did  indeed,  Oiney,"  Doalty  replied. 

"Iv  course  I  did,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  com- 
placent smile.  "If  I  practice  it  a  bit,  I'll  be  able 
!n  another  couple  iv  years  to  uiake  some  iv  the 
young  ones  sit  up." 

"Or  fall  down,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty  with  a  laugh. 

"That's  it,"  said  Oiney.  "Fall  down!  They'll 
go  down  if  I  get  me  arms  roun'  them.  Ye  know 
who  I  would  like  to  show  some  iv  the  tips  to." 

"Owen  Briney,"  said  Doalty,  who  was  by  this 


Oiney  Leahy  127 

time  aware  that  there  was  no  love  lost  between 
the  cattle  dealer  and  Oiney  Leahy. 

"Yes,  Owen  Briney,  since  ye  say  so,"  said  Oiney, 
in  a  voice  which  tried  to  suggest  that  he  was  think- 
ing, not  of  Owen,  but  of  some  other  person.  "Yes, 
I  would  like  to  put  Owen  Briney  flat  on  his  back, 
the  dirty  toe-rag." 


VIII 


The  fresh  life  of  the  glen  and  mountain  was  a 
tonic  to  young  Doalty  Gallagher.  He  lived  con- 
tent and  was  happy.  After  breakfast  he  went  out 
to  his  work  on  the  fields  or  hills,  gathered  in  the 
turf  and  helped  to  build  them  in  big  stacks  on  the 
high  hillocks  of  the  spread-fields.  His  brother 
Teague  worked  with  him  and  this  youngster  was  a 
bit  surprised  at  Doalty's  readiness  to  take  part  in 
the  labour  of  the  farm.  Maura  The  Rosses  was 
a  little  bit  annoyed. 

"I  don't  know  why  Doalty  just  goes  about  the 
same  as  if  he  had  never  been  away  from  here," 
she  said  once.  "He  goes  out  and  works,  just  as  if 
he  had  only  been  away  at  the  harvest  in  Scotland 
or  England.  The  Greenanore  people  (Maura 
meant  the  Greenanore  people  of  the  Quigley  class) 
will  think  he  has  been  nothin'  at  all,  when  he  was 
abroad  in  other  parts." 

But  she  never  showed  her  annoyance  to  Doalty, 
though  one  day  she  asked  him  why  he  never  put  a 
white  collar  round  his  neck. 


128  Glenmornan 

"I'm  more  comfortable  without  a  collar,"  said 
Doalty. 

But  Maura,  who  did  not  like  seeing  her  son 
descend  to  the  ordinary  occupations  of  the  farm, 
was  herself  a  great  worker  and  she  never  had  an 
idle  moment.  One  job  followed  fast  on  the  heels 
of  another,  and  Doalty,  who  often  watched  her 
toil,  marvelled  at  her  energy.  He  often  saw  her 
go  out  to  the  well  for  a  bucket  of  water  to  make 
the  stirabout.  On  her  way  out  she  would  stop 
for  a  moment  to  lift  a  stray  peat  or  a  thorn  from 
the  street.  On  the  way  back  she  would  place  her 
bucket  on  the  ground,  tie  a  stray  strapper  in  the 
byre,  or  chase  the  pigs  or  ducks  into  their  croaghs. 
On  bringing  the  water  in,  she  would  place  it  in 
the  pot  that  hung  by  a  crook  over  the  fire,  sit  down 
and  knit  a  sock  while  she  waited  for  the  water  to 
boil.  Not  a  moment  was  lost,  and  even  at  night, 
when  she  knelt  to  say  her  prayers,  she  would  place 
her  knitting  on  the  chair  near  her,  so  that  no  time 
would  be  lost  in  resuming  her  work  when  she  got 
up  from  her  knees.  Maura  The  Rosses  had  never 
had  a  day's  illness  in  her  life. 

Doalty  went  to  mass  every  Sunday.  On  the  first 
occasion  he  knelt  when  all  the  others  knelt,  but  it 
was  rumoured  in  the  barony  afterwards  that  he 
failed  to  bless  himself  when  others  did  so.  On  the 
second  Sunday  he  did  not  kneel  during  the  whole 
service  and  this  was  noticed  by  the  congregation. 

"It's  the  faith  that  he  has  lost  abroad,"  they 
said,  and  shook  their  heads.  "It's  bad  for  the 
young  to  leave  their  own  country." 


Oiney  Leahy  129 

The  priest  of  the  parish  was  an  old  fellow 
named  Devaney,  a  man  belonging  to  a  bad  type, 
the  peasant-born  extortionist.  Doalty  knew  him 
of  old,  when  a  barefooted  boy  at  the  national 
school.  He  feared  him  then,  now  he  detested  him. 
Devaney  was  a  gombeen  priest,  who  played  on  the 
fears  and  dreads  of  the  poor  and  drained  the  needy 
of  their  last  penny.  For  collecting  stipends,  offer- 
ings and  plate-money,  Devaney  had  no  equal. 
Nothing  escaped  him  and  it  was  said  by  the  people 
of  the  parish  that  the  priest  could  make  a  corpse 
blush  in  its  coffin  if  the  offerings  were  small. 

Devaney  had  built  himself  a  large  residence  near 
the  village,  making  the  peasantry  pay  the  money 
for  the  building,  taxing  them  to  the  extent  of  eight 
pounds  per  family.  In  addition  to  this  the  men 
folk  had  to  go  and  work,  wage  free,  at  the  building 
of  the  house,  the  quarrying  and  carting  of  stone, 
the  draining  of  the  garden  and  the  upkeep  of  paths 
leading  to  the  residence. 

One  day  Maura  The  Rosses  spoke  to  her  son. 
The  woman  had  been  down  at  the  village  market 
selling  a  butt  of  butter,  and  as  she  got  a  good  price 
for  it  she  was  in  a  high  humour.  It  was  in  the 
evening  after  her  return  that  she  spoke. 

"On  me  way  back  I  met  the  priest,"  she  said, 
and  a  pleased  look  appeared  on  her  face.  "He  just 
came  up  to  me  and  spoke  so  kindly." 

"And  why  not?"  Doalty  asked  with  bitterness, 
in  his  voice.  "Are  you  not  ten  times  better  than 
he  is?" 

"Better  than  the  holy  priest?"  asked  Maura  in 


130  Glenmornan 

a  shocked  voice.  -'To  think  iv  ye  sayiri'  that, 
Doalty!" 

"But  surely,  mother,  you  don't  think  that  he  is 
a  more  worthy  creature  than  old  Oiney,  for  ex- 
ample." 

"Oiney's  an  old  plaisham,  and  ye  know  that  yer- 
self,  Doalty,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses.  "Why  ye 
mention  him  in  the  same  voice  with  the  priest  I 
don't  know.  And  he's  comin'  up  to  see  ye  too." 

"Devaney?"  Doalty  asked. 

"Father  Devaney  is  comin'  up  to  see  ye,"  said 
the  mother. 

"But  I  haven't  asked  him." 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  ye  at  all,  to 
speak  in  that  way,  Doalty,"  said  the  woman.  "It's 
not  to  every  house  that  he  would  come,  even  if  he 
was  asked." 

Doalty  grew  angry  and  tried  to  prove  to  his 
mother  that  the  priest  was  a  most  unworthy  man, 
that  he  was  a  tyrant  and  a  rogue.  But  his  words 
seemed  to  make  no  impression  on  his  mother.  She 
listened,  her  hands  resting  on  her  lap,  but  Doalty 
felt  that  his  words  redounded  from  her  as  from  a 
stone  wall.  She  heard  them,  but  she  had  her  own 
convictions  which  nothing  could  -shake  or  drive 
away. 

"If  he  comes  here  to  see  me  without  being  in- 
vited I'll  pitch  him  into  the  midden,"  Doalty  cried. 

"And  for  doin'  that  the  house  and  yerself  will 
never  have  any  luck,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses. 

"And  you  believe  that?"  Doalty  enquired. 

"Nobody  with  any  faith  would  doubt  it/'  said 


Oiney  Leahy  131 

Maura  The  Rosses  in  a  dogmatic  tone.  "Nobody 
in  the  whole  wide  world." 

Doalty  was  a  puzzle  to  the  neighbours.  That 
he  did  not  behave  like  a  shop-boy  pleased  them  at 
first,  but  after  a  while  they  became  a  little  suspi- 
cious. The  peasantry  are  always  suspicious  of  that 
which  they  do  not  understand.  That  a  young  fel- 
low, with  money  and  learning,  behaved  as  Doalty 
behaved  was  something  they  could  not  understand. 
"He's  curious,"  they  said,  when  speaking  amongst 
themselves,  a  world  of  meaning  in  their  voices. 
"Well,  if  he  is,  he  must  have  taken  it  from  his 
mother's  ones,  for  there's  no  understanding  the 
Rosses  people,"  they  added.  Even  Dennys  The 
Drover  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  Doalty.  One 
day  he  said  to  him : 

"Are  ye  never  for  leavin'  here  again,  Doalty?" 

"I'm  not,  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Doalty.  "I'm  bet- 
ter here  than  anywhere  else." 

"Well  if  ye  look  at  it  in  that  way !"  said  Dennys 
The  Drover,  but  down  in  his  heart  he  thought  that 
Doalty  had  left  London  because  he  had  got  into 
trouble  there. 

The  two  young  men  often  went  out  fishing  to- 
gether. They  would  sit  by  the  river  throwing  their 
flies  on  the  stream.  Now  and  again,  when  they 
saw  the  water-keeper  coming  along  the  bank,  Den- 
nys would  turn  to  Doalty  and  say,  "We'll  run  in 
and  hide  in  the  wood,"  alluding  to  one  of  the  spin- 
neys near  the  banks.  Then  the  two  of  them  would 
hide  there  until  the  water-keeper  had  gone  out  of 


132  Glenmornan 

sight.     When  danger  was  past  they  would  come 
out  again  and  resume  their  fishing. 

One  day  Doalty  saw  the  water-keeper  coming 
down  the  glen. 

"We'll  get  into  the  wood,"  he  said,  turning  to  his 
friend. 

"What  for?"  Dennys  enquired. 

"I  see  the  water-keeper  coming,"  said  Doalty. 

"Let  him  come  then,"  Dennys  replied,  a  gleam 
of  anger  lighting  up  his  eyes.  "To  think  that  we 
cannot  get  fishin'  under  our  own  houses!  Didn't 
God  make  the  water  for  us  to  fish  in,  just  as  much, 
and  more,  than  for  them  that  comes  from  abroad!" 

He  sat  there  with  Doalty  until  the  water-keeper, 
who  had  observed  them,  came  down  to  the  bank 
of  the  river. 

"Have  you  permission  to  fish  here?"  asked  the 
water-keeper,  looking  at  the  two  men. 
,  "What  the  hell  is  that  to  ye?"  asked  Dennys 
The  Drover,  and  gripping  hold  of  the  man  he  flung 
him  with  one  mighty  heave  into  the  river.  Then 
he  pulled  him  out. 

When  he  stood  on  the  bank,  wet  and  shivering, 
Dennys  looked  at  him. 

"Hook  it!"  he  yelled,  catching  the  man  by  the 
collar  of  the  coat  and  shaking  him.  "Get  about 
yer  business,  and  if  ye  say  anything  about  this  I'll 
kill  ye,  be  God  I  will!" 

The  water-keeper  went  away  and  Dennys  heard 
no  more  about  the  matter. 

Next  time  the  water-keeper  came  along  the  glen 
-road  both  men  hid  in  the  wood. 


Oiney  Leahy  133 

'"There's  some  things  that  can  be  done  once," 
said  Dennys  The  Drover.  "But  there's  danger  in 
doing  them  too  often." 

The  two  young  men  often  wrestled  with  one  an- 
other and  Dennys,  who  was  much  stronger  phys- 
ically than  Doalty,  was  making  great  progress  in 
the  art.  He  was  willing  to  attempt  anything  and 
when  he  scored  a  point,  his  face  would  light  up 
with  delight  and  he  would  say,  "I'm  gettin'  me 
hand  in,  Doalty.  I'll  soon  be  almost  as  good  as 
yerself." 

Now  and  again  Doalty  met  Sheila  Dermod  and 
Eileen  Kelly  going  down  the  road  to  the  village. 
The  two  girls  were  great  chums  and  always  went 
to  mass  and  market  together.  Eileen  was  a  win- 
ning slip  of  a  girl,  charming  but  capricious,  good- 
hearted  but  coquettish,  fond  of  her  parents  but 
fonder  of  the  boys.  She  would  be  a  good  match 
for  some  young  man  when  her  parents  died,  for 
she  was  the  only  child  and  the  farm  coming  to  her 
was  a  good  one,  with  grass  for  three  cows  and 
twenty  sheep.  She  lived  next  door,  but  one,  to 
Sheila  Dermod,  and  Owen  Briney's  land  divided 
the  two  farms.  If  Owen  was  a  younger  man  he 
might  have  married  one  of  the  girls,  but  as  it  was, 
he  was  no  match  for  either  of  them.  Owen  was 
a  stingy,  near-going  creature,  one  of  those  who 
asks  a  pipe  of  tobacco  in  return  for  a  light.  Glen- 
mornan  girls  were  loth  to  have  their  knitting  spoilt, 
as  they  say,  by  a  man  like  Owen  Briney.  Sheila 
or  Eileen  never  spoke  to  Owen.  "As  if  we  would 


134  Glenmornan 

give  him  the  nose/'  they  often  said.  "We  wouldn't 
be  seen  on  the  same  side  of  the  road  with  him." 

Sheila  Dermod  was  of  a  very  retiring  disposi- 
tion, but  despite  that  every  one  was  aware  that  she 
was  very  proud  and  conscious  of  her  own  beauty. 
Eileen  Kelly  was  good  looking,  but  whenever 
Doalty  Gallagher  met  the  two  together  and  his 
eyes  rested  on  Sheila,  he  would  forget  all  about 
her  friend.  Sheila,  gracefully  built,  hardly  seemed 
to  have  reached  her  full  development  yet.  Meet- 
ing Doalty  on  the  roadway,  her  big,  blue  eyes 
would  look  at  him  direct  and  bold  for  a  moment, 
then  her  eyelids  would  faintly  droop  and  the  ex- 
pression on  her  face  would  become  very  deep  and 
tender.  On  these  occasions  a  strange  thrill  of  ex- 
citement would  pass  through  Doalty's  whole  body ; 
his  heart,  stirred  by  a  vague,  endless  anticipation, 
would  fill  with  a  happiness  which  he  could  neither, 
analyse  or  explain. 

On  Sundays  Sheila  wore  a  hat  when  going  to 
the  village,  but  on  week-days  she  wore  a  shawl. 
Doalty  thought  that  she  looked  better  in  the  latter 
garb,  but  he  never  noticed  what  apparel  became 
Eileen  Kelly  best. 

"Well,  I  hope  that  she  gets  married  to  Dennys 
The  Drover,"  he  often  remarked.  "The  two  are 
made  for  one  another.  And  he's  such  a  fine  fel- 
low. .  .  .  I've  never  met  a  man  whom  I  liked  so 
much." 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  FAIR  OF  GREENANORE 

At  night  when  the  old  ones 

Have  finished  their  jobs, 
And  trading  is  over, 

They  sit  by  their  hobs, 
Counting  their  money, 

For  that  is  their  way, 
When  they're  back  from  the  fair 

At  the  shut  of  the  day. 

At  night,  when  the  young  ones 

Are  doing  a  lot 
Of  kissing  and  courting, 

And  paying  their  shot; 
They  spend  all  their  money, 

For  that  is  their  way, 
When  they're  down  in  the  fair 

At  the  shut  of  the  day. 

— The  Fair. 


IT  was  early  morning  of  Lammas  Day,  the  day 
on  which  the  fair  of  Greenanore  was  held,  and 
Doalty   Gallagher    stood   on   the   glen   road, 
where  it  ran  through  Stranameera,  watching  the 
people  go  by  on  their  way  to  the  village.    The  road 
was  black  with  men  and  women,  cattle  and  carts, 
with  mountainy  men,  straggling  by,  driving  their 
135 


136  Glenmornan 

sheep  and  cows,  accompanied  by  barefooted 
women,  carrying  their  big  hanks  of  yarn  on  their 
backs  and  their  boots  slung  over  their  shoulders. 
These  women  would  put  their  boots  on,  when  they 
•came  near  the  village,  for  though  their  own  per- 
sonal comforts  vetoed  boots,  convention  and  moun- 
tainy  pride  demanded  that  they  should  be  worn  at 
the  fair.  The  mountainy  people  had  been  on  the 
road  all  night,  for  the  journey  from  the  head-end 
of  the  barony  to  the  village  of  Greenanore  was  a 
distance  of  twelve  or  fourteen  miles. 

Every  townland  in  the  parish  was  passing  by; 
Croagh  An-Airagead  and  Croagh  Gorm,  with  their 
carts  of  wool  and  droves  of  sheep;  Knock  Letter- 
ha  and  Greenans,  with  their  helfted  cows  from  the 
pastures  and  their  butter  from  the  churning;  Cor- 
nagrilla,  a  townland  of  looms,  with  its  webs  of 
homespun  heaped  on  the  weavers'  backs,  and  Gra- 
naroodagh,  the  townland  of  sally  bushes,  with  its 
bundles  of  home-made  creels  and  baskets.  Parties 
of  drovers,  dark-skinned  men,  with  vigorous  eyes, 
who  swore  with  every  breath  and  prefaced  every 
remark  they  made,  by  spitting  through  their  teeth, 
hurried  along,  driving  their  wild  bullocks  before 
them.  In  the  midst  of  the  crowd  came  a  cart, 
heaped  with  butts  of  butter,  the  results  of  a 
month's  churning  in  the  upper  arm  of  the  glen.  On 
one  of  the  white  butts  sat  the  driver,  his  head  bent 
forward  and  a  short  black  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
Behind  him  sat  two  women,  their  shawls  wrapped 
tightly  round  their  heads,  one,  sitting  very  still,  her 
.eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  and  her  thoughts  on  the 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          137 

price  which  she  would  get  for  her  butt  of  butter, 
the  other  woman,  telling  her  beads,  praying,  no 
doubt,  for  a  good  market. 

Immediately  behind,  came  an  old,  bearded  man, 
in  a  white,  woollen  wrapper,  leading  a  little  lame 
nag,  which  was  drawing  a  cart  of  apples.  When- 
ever the  wheel  of  the  cart  creaked  as  it  ran  in  a 
rut,  the  old  withered  man,  who  was  chewing  a  plug 
of  black  tobacco,  turned  to  the  nag,  shouted, 
"Whoa  eep,  now !  ye  limb  iv  the  divil,  ye !"  and  spat 
on  the  dusty  road. 

"It's  a  nice  morning,"  said  Doalty. 

"'Tis,  thank  God,"  said  the  man.  Then  the 
wheel  creaked.  "Whoa  eep  now,  ye  limb  iv  the 
divil,  ye!"  said  the  old  fellow,  spitting  in  the  dust 
and  continuing  his  journey. 

Following  the  apple  cart  came  Dennys  The 
Drover,  driving  a  dozen  short-horned  bullocks,  a 
cigarette  between  his  lips,  an  ash-plant  in  his  hand, 
and  his  cap  thrust  well  back  from  his  forehead. 
From  his  swinging  gait  and  the  careless  look  on 
his  bold,  open  face  it  was  easily  seen  that  he  was 
in  a  high,  good  humour. 

"Good  mornin'  to  ye,  Doalty!"  he  called  in  a 
ringing  voice  and  his  face  lit  up  with  a  smile. 
:"Are  ye  ready  to  come  in  with  me  now  ?" 

"I'm  ready,"  said  Doalty.  On  the  preceding  day 
the  two  young  fellows  had  arranged  to  go  to  the 
fair  together. 

"There'll  be  some  'fun  the  day,  I'm  tellin'  ye/' 
said  Dennys,  catching  his  ash-plant  by  knob  and 


138  Glenmornan 

ferule  with  both  hands  and  curling  it  round  his 
shoulders. 

"I  hope  so." 

"And  the  girls  that'll  be  there!"  said  Drover 
Dennys,  giving  one  of  the  bullocks,  which  stopped 
to  eat  some  grass  from  the  roadside,  a  skelp  on 
the  rump  with  his  ash-plant.  "I  have  two  or  three 
in  me  mind  for  the  night,  so  I'll  try  and  get  rid  iv 
all  the  stock  the  day,  for  I  don't  want  to  take  them 
home  again  and  miss  the  fun.  .  .  .  Ah!  the  girls 
that'll  be  there!"  he  repeated  with  a  laugh.  "No 
man  need  go  empty  the  night." 

"But  you  can  have  any  girl  that  you  want,"  said 
Doalty.  By  this  he  really  meant  that  Dennys  could 
have  Sheila  Dermod  if  he  so  desired. 

"Sometimes  I'm  in  luck's  way,"  said  Dlennys 
carelessly.  "But  then,  ye  never  know  what  to 
make  iv  them.  But  if  yerself  comes  with  me  the 
night  we'll  be  sure  to  get  two.  I'll  see  that  ye  don't 
go  without  a  girsa." 

He  spoke  in  an  off-hand  manner,  as  if  he  had 
control  of  the  whole  female  element  at  the  fair  of 
Greenanore;  then  he  hit  a  bullock  near  him  with 
his  ash-plant  and  the  two  young  men  made  their 
way  together  to  the  fair. 

Dennys  had  a  worthy  reputation  amongst  the 
cattle  dealers.  He  never  exaggerated  the  number 
of  brilliant  bargains  which  he  had  made,  a  rare 
trait  in  a  drover.  But  despite  his  successes,  things 
did  not  prosper  with  him  and  hard  work  was  not 
at  all  to  his  liking,  "What  he  makes  in  the  fair 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          139 

he  loses  in  the  field,"  the  neighbours  said,  when 
speaking  of  him,  and  this  was  in  a  great  measure 
true.  His  mother  and  sister  did  most  of  the  work 
of  the  little  farm,  carried  in  the  peat  from  the  hills 
and  planted  the  potatoes  and  corn.  Bending  over 
a  spade  was  not  to  the  liking  of  Drover  Dennys. 
But  he  was  very  generous  and  straightforward. 
He  haggled  over  shillings  and  pence  in  a  bargain, 
of  course,  but  that  is  as  it  should  be.  That  a  drover 
must  never  have  the  worst  of  a  bargain  is  a  tradi- 
tion, which  men,  who  deal  in  cattle,  must  live  up 
to.  But  after  a  bargain  was  concluded,  Drover 
Dennys  was  ready  to  spend  the  money  that  he 
made,  not  on  himself,  but  on  his  boy  and  girl 
friends.  Even  when  he  had  not  a  penny  to  spend, 
he  was  still  popular,  and  this  is  good  testimony 
to  the  worth  of  a  man. 

r' 

II 

The  market  place  was  crowded  when  the  two 
young  men  got  there.  A  great  amount  of  hand- 
shaking, shouting  and  bargaining  was  going  on. 
Owen  Briney  was  there  and  Doalty  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  watch  him  bargaining  for  a  cow,  with 
an  old  barefooted  woman  whose  thin  weasened  face 
was  almost  hidden  in  a  gosling-grey  handkerchief. 
The  woman  was  Crania  Coolin  of  Stranameera, 
next  door  neighbour  but  two  to  Maura  The  Rosses. 
But,  although  living  so  near  Doalty' s  home,  she 
had  never  come  to  see  him  since  his  return.  The 


140  Glenmornan 

reason  for  the  old  woman's  unfriendly  attitude  was 
this. 

When  Doalty  was  a  little  boy  of  eight,  Crania 
had  a  white  duck  which  used  to  lay  out.  At  night 
Crania  would  try  this  duck  and  find  that  it  had  an 
egg.  Putting  the  duck  under  a  creel,  she  would 
wait  for  it  to  lay.  But  the  duck  was  generally  ob- 
stinate and  refused  to  part  with  its  egg  when  in 
confinement.  Morning  and  noon  would  pass,  but 
still  no  egg  would  be  seen.  By  that  time  Crania's 
husband  (he  died  one  day  with  a  great  pain  in  his 
side)  required  the  creel  to  carry  in  turf  from  the 
hill.  Then  the  duck  had  to  be  released,  but  Crania, 
before  allowing  the  bird  its  freedom,  used  to  tie  a 
string  to  its  leg,  and  for  the  rest  of  that  afternoon 
she  would  follow  the  string  through  the  meadows 
and  woods  near  the  house.  But  for  all  that,  she 
never  could  find  the  white  duck's  nest.  She  found 
out  something  else,  however,  and  this  cleared  up 
the  mystery  of  the  duck  in  her  eyes.  She  discov- 
ered Doalty  Gallagher  fishing  for  gillets*  in  the 
Owenawadda,  and  his  fishing  line  was  made  from 
the  strings  which  Crania  had  tied  to  the  leg  of 
the  white  duck.  Afterwards  she  never  spoke  a 
civil  word  to  Doalty  Gallagher  and  never  broke 
discourse  with  his  people  until  he  left  the  country. 

Doalty  looked  at  Crania,  then  turned  his  eyes 
to  Owen  Briney.  Owen  was  an  ungainly  man  of 
medium  height,  with  yellow  wrinkled  skin,  furtive, 
cunning  eyes,  high  cheekbones  and  an  exception- 
ally heavy  jaw,  which,  when  he  smiled,  he  drew. 

*  Minnows. 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          141 

in,  until  it  rested  on  his  Adam's  apple.  He  had  a 
discreet  forehead  that  hid  most  of  itself  under  his 
hair,  leaving  hardly  the  breadth  of  a  forefinger  ex- 
posed. Owen  did  a  little  bit  of  cattle  jobbing  and 
it  was  said  that  nobody  had  ever  got  the  better  of 
him  in  a  deal.  Although  not  having  much  land 
to  speak  of,  it  was  common  talk  that  he  had  money 
and  to  spare.  His  farm,  all  hill,  lay  between  Breed 
Dermod's  land  and  Kelly's  land.  Joined  to  either 
of  those  farms  it  would  make  a  place  worth  talking 
about.  .  .  .  However,  no  young  girl  would  be  ex- 
pected to  marry  a  man  like  Owen  Briney.  .  .  . 
So  the  Stranameera  people  said  when  their  conver- 
sation turned  on  march  ditches.  Owen  had  a  nick- 
name, for  very  few  people  in  Glenmornan  are  with- 
out nicknames.  His  was  "Yellow  Behind  The 
Lugs." 

,  "Well,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do,"  Owen  Briney; 
was  saying  to  Crania  Coolin  when  Doalty  came  up. 
"I'll  give  ye  five  pounds,  good  money,  every  penny 
iv  it,  for  the  baste.  And  the  luck's-money  a  half- 
crown." 

"Seven  pounds  is  what  I  want,"  said  the  old 
woman,  pressing  the  handkerchief  back  from  her 
wrinkled  forehead  with  thin  gnarled  fingers. 
1  "Seven  pounds !"  said  Owen  Briney,  placing  em- 
phasis on  the  word  "pounds."  He  drew  his  chin 
in  and  rested  his  tobacco-stained  teeth  on  his  lower 
lip.  "Seven  pounds'."  he  repeated,  emphasising 
"seven"  this  time  and  fixing  a  look  of  pity  and  com- 
miseration on  the  woman. 

"That's  me  price,"  said  Grania  Coolin. 


142  Glenmornan 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do,"  said  Owen,  press- 
ing his  elbow  against  his  hip  and  unclosing  his  fist. 
He  spread  out  his  fingers  to  their  full  extent  and 
gazed  at  the  leaf  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  hoped  to  find 
something  there.  "I'll  give  ye  five  pound,  half-a- 
crown,  and  with  the  luck's-money  that'll  lave  ye 
five  pound  clear  to  yer  own  pocket.  And  it's  much 
more  than  the  baste  is  worth." 

"I'll  not  sell,  a  penny  less  than  seven  pounds," 
said  the  woman. 

"Ye'll  not  see  the  colour  iv  that  money  this  good 
day,"  said  Owen  in  a  gruff  voice. 

"The  market's  young  as  yet,"  said  Crania 
Coolin. 

"Well,  seven  pounds  is  more  than  I'll  give  for 
that  ranny,"  said  Owen,  walking  away.  He  would 
come  back  presently  and  start  the  bargaining  over; 
again. 

Doalty  looked  at  the  old  woman,  at  her  bowed 
head  and  her  hacked  feet  that  were  covered  with 
the  dust  and  dung  of  the  market  place.  One  of  her 
heels  was  bleeding,  showing  that  she  had  stepped 
either  on  a  thorn  or  a  piece  of  glass.  And  she  was 
very  poor.  If  she  got  six  pounds  for  the  old  cow 
she  would  be  very  happy.  She  did  not  really  ex- 
pect to  make  more  than  five-pounds-ten,  and  proba- 
bly, before  the  fair  came  to  an  end,  she  would  sell 
the  animal  for  the  money  that  Owen  Briney  had 
already  offered  her. 

Doalty,  seized  with  a  desire  to  regain  the  good 
graces  of  Crania,  went  across  to  her.  He  had, 
in  fact,  forgotten  all  about  Crania's  antipathy  to- 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          143 

wards  him,  until  one  day,  shortly  after  his  return, 
he  was  reminded  of  it  by  Maura  The  Rosses. 
|     "How   much   are   you   wanting    for   the   cow, 
Grania  ?"  he  enquired  as  he  stood  by  the  woman. 

Crania  looked  at  him. 

"It's  Doalty  Gallagher  I'm  seein',  isn't  it?"  she 
asked,  and  dropping  the  switch  which  she  carried, 
she  caught  his  hand  with  her  own  two.  "Ah!  it's 
glad  I  am  to  see  ye,  Doalty,"  she  said,  with 
warmth  in  her  voice.  "I  heard  tell  that  ye  were 
at  home  and  I  was  just  goin'  over  to  see  ye  every 
day,  but  one  thing  had  to  be  done  one  day  and  then 
another  another  day,  and  I  couldn't  get  away  from 
me  own  place  at  all.  .  .  .  And  ye're  wantin'  to 
buy  the  cow?"  she  asked. 

j     "I  am,  Grania  Coolin,"  said  Doalty.     ''What's 
the  price  of  it?" 

"Seven  pounds,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"All  right,  I'll  give  you  that,"  said  Doalty. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  Doalty ;  a  startled  and 
suspicious  expression  showed  in  her  eyes.  To  find 
a  man  agreeing  so  readily  to  her  price  surprised 
her.  No  doubt  he  was  trying  to  make  a  fool  of 
her. 

"Money  down?"  she  enquired. 

"I'll  give  it  now." 

"And  the  luck's-money  ?" 

"You  needn't  trouble  about  that,"  said  Doalty. 

"Ye  don't  want  any  luck's-money  ?"  she  asked  in 
a  dubious  voice. 

"No,  you  needn't  trouble  about  that,"  Doalty 


144  Glenmornan 

assured  her,  with  an  awkward  laugh,  as  if  trying 
to  placate  the  old  woman.  He  paid  her  the  money 
and  sent  the  cow  up  to  Stranameera  with  a  young 
bare-legged  boy,  a  servant  in  Eileen  Kelly's  house, 
who  was  going  back  to  his  work  on  the  farm. 

Doalty  sauntered  round  the  market  and  came 
across  Dennys  The  Drover  speaking  to  Oiney 
Leahy.  Dennys,  whose  stock  was  good,  had  got 
rid  of  all  the  bullocks  and  his  pockets  were  bulging 
with  money.  Oiney,  who  had  brought  in  an  old 
white-backed  cow  to  sell,  was  not  so  successful. 
''It's  not  a  market  at  all,  this,"  he  said  to  Doalty. 
'"Racharies  iv  cattle  and  nobody  to  look  at  them. 
And  no  wonder,  for  if  ye  hefted  some  iv  the  cows 
that's  here  for  a  moon,  ye'd  be  bate  to  give  them  a 
showy  elder.*  I  wish/'  he  added,  with  a  helpless 
gesture  of  his  shoulders,  "that  I  could  get  rid  iv 
this  bit  iv  a  baste  iv  mine.  If  it  was  off  me  hands 
I  could  get  down  the  street  to  see  the  girls." 

"Are  ye  comin'  down  the  street  with  me  ?"  asked 
Dennys,  turning  to  Doalty.  "We'll  see  what's  go- 
in'  on  there.  I'll  see  ye  after  a  while  when  ye  come 
down  yerself,  Oiney,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  old 
man.  "Ye'll  find  me  in  Heel-Ball's." 

"I'll  be  lookin'  for  ye  there,  then,  Dennys,  me 
boy,"  said  Oiney.  "But  I  don't  want  ye  to  be  run- 
nin'  away  with  the  girsas  and  lavin'  me  when  I 
see  ye,"  he  added. 

"No  fear  iv  me  doin'  that,"  said  Dennys  The 
Drover.  "I'm  not  goin'  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  them  this  night.  I'm  goin'  to  be  a  good  boy." 
*  Udder. 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          145 

'Well,  be  careful  anyway,  and  ye'll  be  all  right/' 
said  Oiney  Leahy. 


in 


Although  the  Glenmornan  girls  had  not  yet  come 
in,  there  was  a  big  crowd  of  people  in  the  village, 
and  great  business  was  being  done.  The  white 
butts  of  butter  stood  in  rows  on  the  pavements,  and 
beside  them  were  the  big  hanks  of  mountainy  yarn 
which  Doalty  had  seen  coming  down  the  road  that 
morning.  The  old  appleseller,  with  the  woollen 
wrapper,  had  his  standing  laid  out  and  the  golden 
apples  were  gleaming  amidst  the  brown  straw  of 
the  cart  in  which  they  were  lying.  Near  the  apple 
cart  was  a  second-hand  clothier,  canting  clothes 
from  a  van  on  which  he  stood,  knee-deep  in  a 
huddle  of  old  coats,  trousers,  blouses  and  skirts. 
He  was  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  giving 
vent  to  a  sharp  whistle  now  and  again.  His  shirt 
sleeves  were  thrust  up  to  his  shoulders,  and  his 
face,  puffed  and  florid,  was  beaded  with  sweat. 

"A  snug  wee  frock  for  Paddp  Beag  to  go  to 
school  in,"  he  shouted,  holding  a  boy's  coat  out  in 
front  of  him.  "He'll  be  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug 
in  this!  Phew!  A  pair  of  breeches  with  it,  too, 
and  the  whole  lot  goin'  for  six  shillin's — five  shill- 
in's — four  shillin's — three  and  six.  Nobody  wants 
them!  Did  ye  not  sell  the  wee  brannat  cows  the 
day?  What  are  ye  goin'  to  do  with  Paddy  Beag 
to-morrow  then?  Phew!  If  ye  want  him  to  go  to 
school  I  suppose  ye'll  have  to  blacken  his  backside 


146  Glenmornan 

and  send  him  out  bare-naked.  Phew !  I  never  had 
any  schooling  but  I  would,  if  a  bargain  like  this 
was  goin'  when  I  was  young.  I  never  was  at 
school,  but  I  met  the  scholars.  Buy  up !  Buy  up ! 
and  we'll  not  leave  a  rag  for  the  Rosses!  Ah! 
what  have  we  here  now?  Phew!  A  dress  for 
wee  Biddy  and  in  the  latest  fashion.  Put  her  in 
this  and  the  Yankees  won't  be  able  to  hold  a  candle 
to  her  when  they  come  home.  .  .  .  Seven  and  six 
for  the  wee  dress  for  wee  Biddy — six  and  six — 
five  and  six — five.  I'll  make  a  present  iv  it  to  ye 
for  four  shillin's!  Who'll  make  an  offer?  No- 
body? Phew!  Poor,  unhappy  Ireland!" 
,  Further  along  was  a  cart  on  which  stood  a  sal- 
low man,  nimble  of  finger  and  wrist,  selling 
watches.  A  watch  cost  a  pound  and  with  each 
watch  a  leather  purse  was  presented,  gratis,  to  the 
buyer.  The  man  made  the  pretence  of  filling  the 
purse  with  silver  before  giving  it  to  purchasers 
of  a  watch. 

"A  pound  for  this  watch  and  cheap  at  the 
money,"  he  said,  piling  the  silver  into  a  purse. 
"A  pound  for  a  watch,  and  worth  double  the 
money.  And  you  get  the  purse  with  it.  I  don't 
promise  a  fortune  in  the  purse,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  was  free  from  deceit.  "But  there'll  be  some- 
thing in  it.  A  little  certainly,  and  a  lot  maybe. 
It's  a  pastime  of  mine,  this,  and — who  says  a 
pound,  a  pound  for  the  watch  and  I'll  fling  the 
purse,  and  all  that's  in  the  purse,  into  the  bargain." 

Doalty  and  Dennys  were  watching  the  man  when 
Oiney  Leahy  came  up. 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          147 

"Did  you  sell  the  cow?"  asked  Doalty. 
"I  got  red  iv  it,"  said  Oiney.     "At  a  good  price 
too  considerin*  the  nature  iv  the  market." 


IV 

Omey  looked  at  the  gentleman  on  the'  cart,  then 
he  turned  to  Doalty. 

"I've  seen  the  like  iv  him  afore  and  here  in  this 
very  town  too,"  said  the  old  man,  pointing  his 
thumb  towards  the  cart.  "He  was  just  doin'  the 
same  things,  legerdemain,  thimble-riggin',  black 
magic,  Harry  Stattle,  or  whatever  ye  like  to  call 
it.  Anyway,  he  got  his  tricks  from  the  divil  and 
we  didn't  know  that,  at  that  time. 

"He  came  here — I  mind  the  day  well,  for  it 
was  a  harvest  fair  in  the  year  iv  the  big  floods — 
and  I  brought  in  three  young  animals  to  the  market. 
Sold  them  all,  and  sold  them  well,  too,  for  between 
me  and  yourself,  Doalty,  and  before  Dennys  The 
Drover,  who  can  bear  me  out,  no  man  ever  got  the 
better  iv  me  in  a  bargain.  It  happened  in  the  eve- 
nin',  after  we  had  eaten  a  bit  and  had  a  drink,  01* 
two,  or  three,  for  the  old  times  were  the  times  for 
drinkin/  We  used  to  have  one  to  wet  our  whistle 
when  makin'  a  bargain,  one  when  the  bargain  was 
done,  and  one  to  wash  that  one  down,  and  another 
one  when  we  got  into  the  nearest  aisy,  then  another 
for  the  luck's-money,  and  would  ye  believe  it,  the 
spendin'  iv  the  luck's-money  never  went  beyond 
the  counter  where  it  was  handed  over.  Well,  as 


148  Glenmornan 

I  was  sayin',  one  iv  these  legerdemain  fellows  came 
into  the  town,  and  he  gets  up  on  a  cart,  almost  like 
a  priest — God  forgive  me  for  saying  it — at  the 
altar  on  a  Sunday,  and  he  had  a  little  bag  with  him 
and  lots  iv  wares,  and  as  he  ups,  upon  that  cart, 
he  says :  'I  am  not  here  to  sell  anything/  Then  he 
takes  out  a  handful  iv  pocket-knives,  lead  pencils, 
pens  and  watch-chains,  and  hundreds  iv  other 
things,  and  he  throws  them  right  down  into  the 
middle  iv  us,  and  ye  should  have  seen  the  scram- 
bling 

"I  got  only  a  watch-chain  and  me  not  havin'  a 
watch.  But  I  also  got  a  black  eye  from  some  man 
•. — from  the  Rosses  he  came — who  said  he  had  more 
right  to  the  watch-chain  than  I  had. 

"Well,  so  far,  so  good.  We  were  in  a  maze, 
seein'  a  man  like  that,  that  was  throwin'  things 
away!  But  one  wonder  followed  another.  He 
takes  out  a  purse  and  he  puts  a  watch  into  it,  and 
then  he  puts  money  into  it,  throwin'  it  in  as  hard 
as  he  could  wallop — five-shilling  pieces,  sovereigns, 
silver  and  gold.  So  he  said,  Til  sell  everything  in 
this  purse  for  one  pound.  There  are  only  a  few 
purses, 'and  I  am  goin'  to  have  a  watch  in  every 
purse.  I'll  not  say  whether  you'll  have  gold  in  it 
or  not,  but  ye  see  what  I'm  doin',  I'll  promise  the 
purse  and  the  watch  and  some  money.  How  much 
the  money  will  be,  I'll  not  say/ 

"Well,  do  ye  know,  Doalty,  I  saw  the  money  go 
into  the  purse,  I  saw  it  with  me  own  two  eyes,  so 
I  speculated  a  sovereign,  got  a  purse  and  put  it 
in  my  pocket,  because  he  told  me  to  do  so,  and  he 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          149 

told  every  one  else  who  bought  a  purse  to  do  the 
same  thing — to  put  their  purse  in  their  pocket  and 
not  show  the  contents  to  any  one.  And  the  reason 
for  it  all,  he  says,  was  because  he  was  doin'  this 
in  penance  for  a  sin  that  he  had  committed.  The 
penance  was  put  on  him  by  the  Pope.  Well,  he 
sold  all  his  purses,  and  went  away.  After  he 
had  gone,  we  looked  in  our  purses  and  there  was 
nothing  in  mine  but  a  watch  and  a  chain  and  tup- 
pence. So  well !  we  weren't  promised  anything  else, 
and  we  had  our  watches.  After  a  bit  one  iv  our 
own  countrymen,  second  son  of  Shemus  Wor  iv 
Greenans,  he  was,  that  had  been  abroad,  told  us 
that  the  watches  were  not  worth  more  than  two 
shillings  apiece.  Now,  listen  to  what  happened, 
and  that  will  show  you  what  the  old  times  were, 
Doalty! 

"The  fair  of  Ardagh  came  on  a  while  after  and 
the  word  came  to  us  iip  the  glen,  that  this  man,  this 
thimble-riggin'  rogue,  was  seen  going  to  the  fair 
of  Ardagh.  We  went,  half  a  dozen  iv  us,  from 
Glenmornan,  and  we  found  him  there  up  on  the 
cart,  sellin'  his  watch  and  his  purse.  Ah !  nothing 
could  have  stood  against  us  then,  and  we — ah! 
what  wouldn't  we  do !  I  can't  tell  ye  what  we  did, 
but  anyway,  when  that  man  was  leavin'  the  fair 
of  Ardagh  he  didn't  leave  it  in  the  bare  pelt  be- 
cause Father  Dooney,  the  parish  priest  that  then 
was,  gave  him  a  coat  to  hide  his  skin.  But  the  old 
times — ah!  the  good  old  times!  .  .  .  Come  across 
with  me  to  Heel-Ball's  and  I'll  stand  ye  a  drink." 


150  Glenmornan 


During  the  afternoon  Doalty  !ost  Dennys  and 
could  not  find  him.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening  now  and  most  of  the  old  people  had 
gone  home  from  the  fair.  The  young  country  girls 
had  come  in,  and  Doalty  had  seen  Sheila  Dermod 
and  her  friend,  Eileen  Kelly,  walking  up  and  down 
the  street  for  the  past  two  hours.  When  Sheila 
passed  him  she  looked  at  him  with  a  bashful  smile, 
but  she  did  not  speak  to  him.  Men  must  open  the 
conversation  when  they  want  to  talk  with  the  girls 
at  the  fair  of  Greenanore.  Doalty  would  have 
spoken,  if  Drover  Dennys  had  been  with  him,  but 
Drover  Dennys  had  disappeared. 

It  was  when  he  was  passing  Quigley's  public- 
house  that  he  saw  him  again.  Looking  in  from 
the  street  he  saw  a  crowd  of  men,  almost  hidden 
in  the  smoke  of  their  pipes,  drinking  at  the  bar. 
Drovers  they  were,  most  of  them,  and  their  talk 
was  about  the  bargains  of  the  day.  Drover  Den- 
nys was  there,  leaning  his  back  against  a  sack  of 
meal,  his  face  inflamed  a  little,  his  hat  thrust  well 
back  and  his  curls,  wet  with  sweat,  hanging  down 
over  his  eyes.  His  exclamations,  innocent  affecta- 
tions, spoke  of  youth  and  the  recklessness  of  youth. 
He  looked  such  a  splendid  fellow  that  Doalty 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  admire  him. 

Beside  Dennys,  Owen  Briney  was  standing,  his 
swarthy  face,  prominent  jaw  and  high  cheekbones, 
lit  up  with  the  light  of  a  swinging  paraffin  lamp 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          151 

that  was  suspended  from  the  roof.  Between  his 
lips  he  held  his  clay  pipe,  the  bowl  turned  down 
and  the  ash  falling  from  it  whenever  he  moved  his 
lips.  In  his  eyes  the  furtive  expression,  which 
Doalty  had  noticed  that  morning,  looked  more  pro- 
nounced, and  Owen  seemed  to  be  taking  stock  of 
every  man  round  him  and  hanging  on  every  word 
that  was  spoken,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  using  the 
talk  to  his  own  advantage.  He  loved  gossip,  was 
very  secretive  about  his  own  affairs,  but  was  eager 
to  listen  to  any  conversation.  He  had  drunk  quite 
a  lot  that  day,  but  he  was  a  man  who  could  hold 
his  share  and  keep  his  senses  about  him.  It  was 
hinted  that  he  could  drive  his  best  bargains  when 
drunk.  He  seldom  stood  treat  and  generally  drank 
at  the  expense  of  others. 

Behind  Owen,  sitting  on  the  counter,  with  his 
hands  palms  downward  under  his  thighs,  was 
Micky  Neddy,  a  red-haired,  buck-toothed  young- 
ster, chewing  thick  black  tobacco  and  spitting  on 
the  floor.  He  had  a  great  reputation  in  the  glen, 
for  he  was  a  poacher  of  repute,  who,  in  addition 
to  poaching,  was  able  to  make  potheen  better  than 
any  other  man  in  the  four  corners  of  the  barony. 
As  he  sat  there,  his  moustache  fringed  with  porter 
foam,  he  swung  his  legs  carelessly  from  one  side 
to  another  and  blinked  at  the  lamp.  He  would 
have  to  be  carried  home  that  night,  for  he  was  very 
drunk,  and  was  now  trying  to  pick  up  a  quarrel 
with  old  Oiney  Leahy,  who  was  seated  on  a  bag 
of  meal,  near  the  door.  Hot  words  were  passing 


152  Glenmornan 

between  the  two  men  for  the  last  half-hour.  When 
sober  they  were  the  greatest  friends  possible. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  Doalty  was  peering 
in  through  the  window,  that  Micky  Neddy  lost 
complete  control  of  himself. 

"Ye  damned  Cath-breac  ye,"  he  suddenly 
shouted,  bounding  off  his  seat  and  sticking  his  fist 
up  under  the  old  man's  chin.  "Ye  were  a  fighter 
once,  they  say,  ye  Schol  Gaelig  ye!  Ye  ugly  old 
Greedy  Gut,  ye  Scrape-the-pot.  Where's  the  glen 
turf,  that  go  be  night,  I  want  to  know?  Where 
do  they  go  and  who  does  take  them  ?  Tell  me  that, 
I  say." 

Through  the  window  Doalty  could  see  the  profile 
of  the  old  man.  Oiney  kept  chewing  his  lips,  while 
his  white  beard  moved  up  and  down,  as  if  in  pro- 
test, and  he  looked  Micky  Neddy  between  the  eyes 
without  flinching. 

Suddenly  over  the  melee  the  voice  of  Dennys 
The  Drover  was  heard. 

"What  the  hell  is  all  this  tongue-banging 
about?"  he  yelled,  stretching  out  a  big  hand  and 
gripping  the  shoulder  of  Micky  Neddy. 

"I  don't  mean  nothing  nothin'  at  all,"  stam- 
mered Micky,  edging  away  towards  the  counter, 
but  unable  to  free  himself  from  the  Drover's  grip. 
-'I'm  not  meanin'  anything,  Dennys  The  Drover." 

"Then  hold  yer  dirthy  tongue  between  yer  big 
buck-teeth!"  said  Dennys,  releasing  the  man,  and 
the  scornful  curl  of  his  lips  became  very  pro- 
nounced. Even  as  he  spoke  he  looked  through  the 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          153 

window  and  saw  Doalty.  The  Drover  came  out- 
side. 

"I  was  lookin'  for  ye,  Doalty,"  he  said.  "Where 
have  ye  been  hidin'  ?" 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you,"  said  Doalty. 

"Well,  have  ye  seen  any  girls  about?"  asked 
Dennys. 

-"I  have  seen  some  of  them  about  here  a  minute 
ago,"  said  Doalty.  "The  Stranameera  girls." 

"Then  come  with  me  now,"  said  Dennys,  "and 
we'll  stand  them  a  trate.  I  was  speakin'  to  a  couple 
iv  them  a  wee  while  back,  and  I  was  tellin'  them 
that  me  and  yerself  was  goin'  to  see  them  home." 

"Who  were  you  speaking  to?"  asked  Doalty. 

"Sheila  Dermod  and  Eileen  Kelly,"  said  Drover 
Dennys.  "Amongst  others,"  he  added,  as  an  after- 
thought. 

"Eileen  Kelly?"  said  Doalty,  in  a  voice  of 
'feigned  indifference,  and  all  the  time  he  was  think- 
ing of  Sheila  Dermod. 

"Ye  don't  want  to  go  with  Eileen  then,"  said 
Dennys.  "She's  a  warm  girl,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Then 
try  Sheila  and  ye'll  find  her  not  so  far  behind.  She 
is  just  as  good  as  the  other  if  she  wasn't  so  proud." 

"Shall  we  go  along  and  meet  them  now?"  asked 
Doalty. 

"Now's  the  time,"  said  Drover  Dennys,  with  a 
laugh. 


154  Glenmornan 


VI 


The  two  men  went  down  the  street  and  encoun- 
tered the  two  girls. 

"We've  been  on  the  look-out  for  ye  all  the 
night,"  said  Drover  Dennys.  "We  thought  that 
ye  had  gone  home  afore  we  could  give  ye  a 
trate.  .  .  ." 

"It's  drinking  that  ye  were  instead  iv  lookin'  for 
us,"  said  Eileen  Kelly,  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

"Get  away !"  said  Dennys.  "We'll  go  into  Micky 
Ryan's  shop  and  get  out  of  sight  now.  Come  with 
us  and  have  some  fun." 

"So  ye  were  lookin'  for  us,  the  two  iv  ye !"  Eileen 
Kelly  persisted,  sarcasm  in  her  voice.  "It  looked 
like  it,  be  the  way  ye  were  lanin'  against  that  bag 
iv  male  in  Heel-Ball's  shop.  Ye  had  no  eyes  for 
anybody." 

"Hadn't  I  then?"  said  Drover  Dennys,  mock  re- 
proach in  his  eyes.  "Listen,  Eileen  Kelly,  and  I'll 
tell  ye.  ..." 

He  bent  down  towards  the  girl  and  whispered 
something  in  her  ear,  then  the  two  of  them  walked 
down  the  street,  leaving  Doalty  Gallagher  alone 
with  Sheila  Dermod. 

"Where  are  the  two  iv  them  goin'  now?"  asked 
Sheila,  following  Dennys -and  Eileen  with  a  glance. 

"Oh,  they're  going  to  have  a  talk  about  some- 
thing," said  Doalty,  and  he  looked  in  Sheila's  eyes. 
"We'll  have  a  talk  too." 

"What  have  we  to  talk  about?"  asked  the  girl. 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore         ,155 

"Lots  of  things,"  said  Doalty  grimly,  "Do  you 
mind  the  other  day  when  I  met  you?  I  said  that 
you  were  very  beautiful.  And  I  meant  that.  I'm 
in  love  with  you,  Sheila." 

"Are  you?"  she  asked,  with  a  little  start  of  sur- 
prise, apparently  due  more  to  Doalty's  avowal, 
than  to  the  feeling  that  caused  the  young  man  to 
make  it. 

"Yes,  1  am,"  said  Doalty.  "I  never  have  met 
.a  girl  like  you." 

"Haven't  ye  now?"  she  asked,  and  a  blush  rose 
to  her  eheeks.  "But  how  am  I  to  know  that  ye're 
telling  me  the  truth?"  she  enquired,  knowing  all 
the  time  that  Doalty  was  in  earnest. 

"Now  come  on  the  two  of  ye!"  said  Drover 
Dennys,  coming  back  again,  with  Eileen  Kelly 
hanging  on  his  arm.  "We're  goin'  in  for  a  trate." 

The  four  of  them  made  their  way  to  a  public- 
house  opposite  and  went  upstairs  to  a  small  nar- 
row room,  which  had  a  fire  alight  in  a  grate,  and 
half-a-dozen  spitoons  on  the  floor.  A  table  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  apartment  and  the  four  sat 
round  it.  A  servant  girl  came  in,  and  took  Den- 
nys' orders.  When  she  left  again,  after  bringing 
the  drinks,  Dennys  rose  from  his  chair  and  closed 
the  door,  turning  the  key  in  the  lock.  Then  he  sat 
down  again. 

He  was  in  a  merry  tnood.  When  all  had  drunk 
he  got  to  his  feet  and  went  to  the  door  that  opened 
into  another  compartment.  Standing  with  his 
back  to  the  door  he  beckoned  to  Doalty,  and  the 
young  man  went  across  to  him. 


156  Glenmornan 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  Eileen  in  here,"  he  said,  whis- 
pering in  Doalty's  ear.  "Ye  stop  with  Sheila.  Me 
and  Eileen  has  arranged  it.  When  we're  ready  to 
come  out  again,  I'll  cough.  Ye  can  turn  the  lamp 
out  and  tell  her  everything  in  the  dark." 

Going  back  to  the  table,  they  found  the  two  girls 
holding  a  conversation  in  whispers. 

"What  plans  are  ye  two  makin'  up  between  ye?" 
exclaimed  Dennys,  pushing  the  girls'  heads  apart 
with  his  hands.  "Come  with  me,  Eileen,"  he  said. 
"We'll  go  into  this  room,  next  door,  where  I'll  have 
something  to  tell  ye." 

Putting  his  arm  round  the  girl's  waist  he  took 
her  towards  the  adjoining  apartment,  a  bedroom. 
At  the  door  Eileen  turned  round,  looked  at  Sheila 
and  laughed. 

"Come  on  with  ye,"  said  Dennys,  shoving  the 
girl  into  the  room  in  front  of  him.  Following  her, 
he  closed  the  door. 

Doalty  looked  at  Sheila,  but  he  did  not  turn  the 
lamp  down,  as  Drover  Dennys  had  directed  him. 
He  was  quite  at  his  ease,  though  for  a  moment  he 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  It  was  Sheila  Dermod 
who  first  broke  silence. 

"Ye  haven't  much  to  speak  about,  Doalty  Gal- 
lagher," she  said,  quavering  a  little. 

"Well,  I've  said  all  that  I  had  to  say  when  we 
were  out  on  the  street,"  Doalty  protested,  getting 
to  his  feet  and  coming  closer  to  the  beautiful  girl. 
Sheila's  nostrils  quivered  slightly  and  a  sudden 
look,  which  was  almost  a  challenge  to  the  young 
man,  showed  in  her  steady,  blue  eyes.  The  direct 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          157 

glance  which  she  fixed  on  Doalty  seemed  to  say, 
'Though  the  two  of  us  are  alone  you  dare  not  touch 
me.' 

"What  did  ye  say  when  ye  were  out  on  the  street, 
Doalty  Gallagher?"  she  asked  under  her  breath. 

"Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  it  already/'  said 
Doalty. 

"But  what's  the  good  iv  keepin'  what  ye  said  in 
mind?"  Sheila  asked  in  a  serious  voice.  "People 
can  say  anything  at  a  fair  and  forget  it  the  next 
day."  ' 

"Have  people  ever  told  you  before  that  they  were 
in  love  with  you  ?"  Doalty  asked. 

"Maybe  they  have,"  said  Sheila  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "But  that's  nothin'." 

Doalty  bent  down  and  put  his  arms  round  the 
girl's  waist.  She  got  to  her  feet,  but  made  no  effort 
to  resist  his  clumsy  embrace.  Instead  she  put  her 
lips  close  to  his  ear  and  whispered :  "What  will  they 
be  doin'  in  there  in  that  room  now?"  She  pointed 
her  finger  at  the  bedroom  door  as  she  spoke. 

Doalty's  eyes  followed  her  outstretched  arm,  his 
whole  body  filled  with  a  vague  seductive  yearning] 
as  he  pressed  the  soft,  clinging  form  of  the  charm- 
ing girl  close  to  his  body. 

"Maybe  they  are  doing  just  the  same  as  we  are 
•doing,"  he  stammered. 

"D'ye  think  they  are?"  Sheila  asked,  with  a  con- 
fiding caress  in  her  voice. 

Doalty  looked  down  at  her,  the  pink  face  and  red 
lips.  Her  broad  brimmed  hat  restrained  her  curls 
from  falling  down  over  her  eyes;  a  faint  flush 


158  Glenmornan 

mantled  her  cheeks.  .  .  .  She  snuggled  close  to  his 
chest.  .  .  .  He  put  one  hand  behind  her  head,  press- 
ing it  gently  against  the  soft,  silky  hair  and  whis- 
pered: "Sheila!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  he  lowered  his  lips  to 
hers  and  kissed  her.  .  .  . 

Sheila,  all  at  once,  drew  herself  up  to  her  full 
height,  and  stepping  back  a  pace,  she  looked  Doalty 
in  the  face.  Her  whole  countenance  had  changed : 
in  a  flash  it  had  become  stern  and  threatening.  He 
could  see  her  eyes  light  with  scorn,  her  bosom 
heave  under  her  tight  blouse.  .  .  .  Never  had  he 
seen  her  look  so  beautiful  as  she  looked  at  that 
moment. 

"Doalty  Gallagher,  I  didn't  think  that  iv  ye,"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  outwardly  calm.  But  it  seemed 
as  if  she  were  restraining  herself  from  bursting 
into  tears. 

"What's  wrong  with  you,  Sheila  ?"  Doalty  asked 
impatiently.  Good  heavens !  He  had  done  nothing 
wrong  to  her,  he  thought. 

For  answer  Sheila  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
walked  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom  and  tapped  on 
it  with  her  fingers. 

"It's  time  for  us  to  be  goin'  home,"  she  called. 
"Come  away  with  me  now,  Eileen  Kelly." 

"But  it's  not  time  yet,"  said  Eileen,  poking  her 
mischievous  little  face  out  through  the  door  and 
puckering  her  three-cornered  lips  in  protest.  "Go- 
in'  home  now  and  it  a  fair  day.  Ye  are  a  funny 
girl,  Sheila  Dermod." 

"Goin'  home  now!"  said  Dennys  The  Drover, 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          159 

coming  out  and  standing  in  front  of  Sheila.  "Well, 
yees  can  go  if  yees  like,  but  I'm  not  comin'  home 
with  either  one  or  the  other  iv  yees.  .  .  .  Ye're  not 
much  good  when  there's  any  fun  goin',  Sheila  Der- 
mod!  And  ye  look  as  if  ye  were  goin'  to  cry  too. 
Well,  run  away  with  yees!" 

Dennys  came  across  to  Doalty  Gallagher.  The 
two  girls  made  their  way  down  the  stairs.  Sheila 
never  looked  back  once,  but  Eileen  Kelly  turned 
round  as  her  head  was  just  disappearing  from  sight 
and  fixed  a  knowing  look  on  Doalty.  Then  she 
winked  at  Drover  Dennys. 

"Don't  forget  what  I  was  sayin'  to  ye,  Drover," 
she  laughed  back  and  disappeared. 

"What  have  ye  been  doin'  to  the  girsa,  Doalty  ?" 
Drover  Dennys  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  friend. 
"Having  a  wee  game  with  her,  I  suppose." 

"No,  I  wasn't  doing  anything,"  said  the  discom- 
fited Doalty. 

"Catch  ye  not  doin'  anything  and  ye  all  alone 
with  a  girl,"  said  Dennys  with  a  laugh.  "But  it's 
no  good,  when  it's  the  girl  Sheila.  She's  as  proud 
as  the  hills.  I  can't  stand  her." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  in  love  with  her,"  said 
Doalty. 

"Sometimes  I  have  a  notion  iv  her,"  said  Drover 
Dennys.  "But  I  can't  always  be  foolin'  about  after 
her  and  no  fun  at  all  in  her.  .  .  .  It's  hands  off  if 
ye  touch  her  at  all." 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  if  all  the  men  have  gone  home 
to  Glenmornan  yet,"  said  Drover  Dennys,  when  he 
and  Doalty  had  made  their  way  out  to  the  street. 


160  Glenmornan 

"I  know  that  Micky  Neddy  has  not  gone  back,  for 
he  was  as  drunk  as  a  lord  when  I  left  him  in  Heel- 
Ball's  a  while  ago.  I'll  go  in  there  now  and  try 
and  take  him  home.  Don't  ye  trouble  to  wait  for 
me,  Doalty,  but  go  home  be  yerself.  It  takes  a  lot 
of  handlin'  to  get  Micky  home." 

So  saying,  Dennys  went  across  the  street  to- 
wards Quigley's  and  left  Doalty  to  himself.  The 
young  man  wandered  up  and  down  the  street  for 
quite  half  an  hour,  his  mind  busy  with  many 
thoughts.  Then  he  made  his  way  up  the  glen  road. 


VII 


The  last  to  leave  the  fair  were  returning  home 
now.  A  hundred  yards  out  and  under  a  dim 
street  lamp,  Doalty  could  see  a  crowd  of  men  deep 
in  a  heated  discussion.  Violenjt  laughter  came 
from  the  men  and  fierce  imprecations.  One  man, 
whom  Doalty  recognised  by  his  voice,  was  Micky 
Neddy. 

"If  ever  I  want  to  do  a  thing  I'll  do  it,"  Micky 
was  bellowing.  "I'm  always  ready — always  ready, 
for  that's  the  kind  iv  me.  Mother  iv  God  look  side- 
ways on  me!  if  I'm  not  always  ready." 

The  speaker  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter, 
scraped  the  ground  with  his  fingers,  and  lifting 
a  stone,  he  flung  it  at  the  lamp  overhead  and 
smashed  it.  Then  he  fell  to  the  ground.  Drover 
Dennys,  who  was  in  the  crowd,  bent  over  the  pros- 
trate figure. 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          161 

"Come  home  with  me,  Micky !"  said  Denny s  with 
a  laugh.  "Ye've  a  good  step  in  front  iv  ye  yet,  me 
boy." 

"A  good  step !"  repeated  the  man  on  the  ground. 
"Aw  right!  I'm  always  ready.  Amn't  I,  Drover 
Dennys  ?  But  I  can  get  home  when  I  like,  can't  I  ? 
I'm  always  ready;  always  ready!" 

Dennys  The  Drover  bent  over  the  drunken  man 
and  tried  to  lift  him  to  his  feet. 

"Lave  me  be,"  said  Micky.  "Can  I  not  be  here 
on  me  lone  if  I  like?  Where's  Owen  Briney?" 

"He's  at  home  hours  since,"  Dennys  informed 
him. 

"Oh!  the  damned  Yalla  Behind  The  Lugs;  he 
would  be!  ...  And  the  Stranameera  girsas.  Are 
they  at  home  too  ?" 

"Iv  course  they  are,"  said  Drover  Dennys. 

"Well,  that's  enough  anyway,"  said  Micky, 
snuggling  in  against  the  curbstone,  as  if  going  to 
sleep.  "I  don't  want  to  know  any  more.  Lave  me 
be,  and  I'll  come  home  be  meself .  'Twould  be  an- 
other matter  if  I  had  the  chance  iv  goin'  back  with 
Sheila  Dermod  or  Eileen  Kelly,  or  Norah  Galla- 
gher .  .  .  but  now  .  .  .  Lave  me  be  and  go  home 
be  yerselves." 

Doalty  continued  his  journey  up  the  glen  road 
with  long  strides  and  came  to  his  own  townland. 
A  white  mist  rose  from  the  river  and  settled  on 
the  meadows  of  the  holm.  It  was  here  that  Doalty 
heard  the  sound  of  voices  talking  through  the  mist. 
Oiney  Leahy  was  speaking  to  a  Meenawarawor, 


162  Glenmornan 

man  across  the  river  and  the  talk  was  of  the  mar- 
ket. 

"  'Twas  no  market  at  all,"  Oiney  was  saying, 
speaking  very  slowly,  as  was  his  habit  when  he  had 
drunk  unwisely.  "Poor  rannies  iv  cattle  and  sheep 
they  were  there  this  day,  as  far  as  I  could  see.  Not 
a  fair  at  all  for  the  makin'  iv  money,  or  the  spend- 
in*  iv  it.  I  had  a  springin'  cow  down  there  meself, 
a  good  baste,  and  I  sold  it  for  eight  pounds  ten  and 
half-a-crown  luck's-money.  Indeed  and  I  gave  the 
baste  away." 

"Who  bought  it?"  asked  the  other  man. 

"Owen  Briney,"  said  Oiney.  "He  has  grass  for, 
the  baste,  and  it's  more  nor  I  have." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

-"That's  true,  Oiney,"  said  the  Meenawarawor 
man  with  the  acquiescence  which  decency  demand- 
ed, for  Oiney  really  had  enough  grass  for  two 
cows,  but  he  had  to  sell  one  because  he  wanted 
money.  But  pride,  Glenmornan  pride,  would  not 
permit  the  old  man  to  avow  his  poverty. 

"Did  ye  see  Doalty  Gallagher  at  the  fair?"  asked 
the  man  of  Meenawarawor. 

"I  did,"  said  Oiney.  "Was  near  him  when  he 
bought  that  cow  from  Grania  Coolin.  He  gave  the 
woman  what  she  asked  for  the  baste,  money  down, 
and  wouldn't  have  luck's-money.  I  don't  under- 
stand it  at  all.  His  father  was  a  sensible  man,  God 
rest  him !  and  could  make  a  good  bargain.  And  his 
mother,  dacent  woman,  is  a  thrifty  soul.  No  one 
can  get  the  betther  iv  her.  But  people  change  when 
they  go  abroad,  and  not  always  for  the  best." 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          163 

"D'ye  think  that  the  boyo  has  much  money, 
Oiney?" 

"He  doesn't  dhress  up  to  it  if  he  has,"  said  the 
old  man.  "But  he's  a  good-hearted  fellow,  and 
not  one  to  begrudge  ye  a  dhrop  iv  dhrink,  when 
ye  go  to  his  house." 


VIII 


Doalty  thrust  his  hands  down  into  the  pockets 
of  his  trousers,  and  leaving  the  road,  he  took  the 
path  across  the  fields  to  his  home.  Now  and  again 
he  paused  and  looked  at  the  white  houses  under  the 
hills  and  the  little  modest  lights  in  their  windows. 
There  was  no  moon,  but  the  sky,  coldly  clear,  was 
lit  with  a  thousand  stars.  It  was  a  night  to  be 
alive,  but  somehow  Doalty  did  not  feel  very  happy. 
It  was  evident  that  the  Meenawarawor  man  con- 
sidered him  a  fool.  But  then,  the  man  did  not  un- 
derstand Doalty,  and  for  the  matter  of  that,  Doalty 
did  not  understand  the  man  from  Meenawarawor. 
There  is  a  wider  gap  between  men  of  different  tem- 
peraments than  there  is  between  men  of  different 
nationalities. 

Doalty,  passing  Breed  Dermod's  door,  saw  old 
Breed  leaning  over  the  half  door,  listening  to  the 
people  coming  back  from  the  fair.  She  was  always 
listening  to  the  talk  from  the  road,  and  she  could 
hear  the  very  grass  growing.  She  was  a  very  in- 
quisitive old  woman  and  became,  in  some  way  or 
another,  acquainted  with  the  most  private  affairs 


164  Glenmornan 

of  her  neighbours;  and  secrets  were  never  safe  in 
her  keeping.  She  was  a  confessional  with  ears  and 
tongue.  Nobody  liked  her,  and  at  the  present  mo- 
ment she  was  not  on  speaking  terms  with  the  Gal- 
laghers. Doalty  passed  quietly  by  and  went  into 
the  boreen  that  led  to  his  own  home. 

As  he  was  nearing  his  house  he  heard  the  sound 
of  suppressed  laughter  in  a  meadow  behind  the 
hedge.  He  looked  quietly  over,  and  saw  two  fig- 
ures seated  in  the  grass.  Instinctively  he  knew 
that  he  was  looking  at  Sheila  Dermod  and  Eileen 
Kelly.  They  were  speaking  to  one  another  in  a 
low  voice  and,  as  far  as  he  could  judge,  they  were 
not  aware  of  his  proximity. 

"Has  he  much  money  d'ye  think?"  Sheila  was 
asking. 

t'l  don't  know,"  said  Eileen.  "But  he's  very 
soft.  .  .  .  Ye  can  hear  nothin'  in  Greenanore  the 
day,  only  about  himself  and  old  Grania  Coolin. 
v  .  .  Just  think  of  it!  Givin*  her  seven-pound-five 
for  a  cow,  just  what  she  asked,  and  if  he  was  cute, 
he  could  have  the  baste  for  a  five  pound  note. 
Grania  didn't  know  whether  she  should  take  his 
money  or  not.  After  he  had  left  her,  she  showed 
the  money  to  the  priest  and  he  said  that  the  money 
was  good  enough." 

•"I  suppose  he'll  be  leavin'  here  soon,"  said 
Sheila. 

"Iv  coorse  he  will,"  said  Eileen.  "Bein'  so  long 
away  he  wouldn't  stop  here  now.  And  he's  tryin' 
to  be  like  one  iv  ourselves.  .  .  .  What  did  he  do 
Jo  yerself  the  night?  tYe  didn't  tell  me,  ye  know." 


The  Fair  of  Greenanore          i6§ 

"Didn't  I?"  said  Sheila,  giggling.  "So  I  didn't. 
.  .  .  Oh!  but  'twas  nothin'." 

She  laughed  merrily. 

"A  person  must  do  something  when  they're  alone 
with  a  one.  Mustn't  they  now?"  asked  Eileen. 
"But  I  can  guess  things."  Doalty  could  see  Eileen 
nod  knowingly. 

"Was  Dennys  wantin'  to  come  home  wid  ye?" 
asked  Sheila,  not  answering  her  friend's  question. 
"I  let  him  come  home  with  me  the  last  fair  and  the 
one  before  that,  but  1  wouldn't  let  him  come  home 
with  me  this  time." 

"And  would  that  be  yer  only  reason  for  not  let- 
tin'  him  come  home  with  ye?" 

"Partly  that,  and  also  because  he's  often  seen 
hangin'  round  Maura  The  Rosses  house  up  there," 
Sheila  said.  "If  he  manes  to  go  about  with  one  girl 
why  doesn't  he  stick  to  her?  I  wouldn't  pick  up 
the  leavin's  iv  Norah  Gallagher." 

"But  who  says  that  Dennys  is  always  about  the 
Gallagher's?"  asked  Eileen. 

"Who  would  it  be,  but  Owen  Briney,"  Sheila 
replied.  "Owen  knows  everything." 

"I  can't  help  noticin'  but  Owen's  always  about 
yer  house,"  said  Eileen.  "I  suppose  he'll  be  tryin' 
to  put  some  sturks  to  grazin'  on  yer  land." 

"I  don't  pay  any  heed  to  what  he's  after,"  said 
Sheila.  "I  don't  like  him." 

£rNobody  likes  him  much,"  said  Eileen.  "But 
ye  like  none  iv  the  young  fellows,  Sheila.  That's 
because  they're  all  breakin'  their  hearts  after  ye?" 

"Maybe  that's  it,"  said  Sheila,  with  a  laugh,  get- 


166  Glenmornan 

ting  to  her  feet.  "What  made  us  to  come  here  and 
sit  on  the  wet  grass  I  don't  know.  Come,  let  the 
two  iv  us  run  down  the  lane  and  go  into  the  house." 

Laughing  merrily,  they  caught  one  another's 
hands  and  rushed  away  towards  their  homes. 

Feeling,  for  some  unknown  reason,  very  de- 
spondent, Doalty  lit  a  cigarette  and  drawing  only 
one  whiff  of  smoke,  flung  it  away.  Then  he  went 
into  his  home. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SHEILA  DERMOD 

Now,  maidens,  beware, 

For  your  youth  doesn't  stay, 
But  goes  with  the  seeding, 

Like  blooms  on  the  brae — 
As  markets  are  changing 

Good  prices  don't  keep, 
And  ware  of  the  morning 

At  noon-tide  goes  cheap— 
And  the  glance  of  young  eyes, 

Like  the  bloom  on  the  brae, 
Is  always  forgotten 

By  Hallowmas  Day. 

— The  Pretty  Girl  Milking  Her  Cow. 


NEXT  morning,  after  his  dip  in  the  river, 
Doalty  went  across  to  Oiney  Leahy's  to 
borrow  a  spade.    He  was  going  to  dig  a 
drain  in  the  field  under  the  house,  a  job  that  should 
have  been  done  earlier  in  the  year.    But  there  was 
not  much  help  to  hand  on  the  farm  and  there  was 
no  time  for  the  work. 

The  morning  was  one  to  be  remembered.    The 

meadows  were  wet  with  dew,  the  braes  decked  with 

blossom;  the  whins  on  the  uplands  in  full  bloom 

were  covered  with  spiders'  webs,  on  which  the  dew- 

167 


1 68  Glenmornan 

drops  glistened  like  diamonds.  In  the  birches  that 
rimmed  spinkh  and  awlth  the  birds  warbled  mer- 
rily; a  corncrake  railed  across  the  holms  by  the 
river;  butterflies  flitted  from  flower  to  flower,  and 
the  early  bees  were  already  out  on  their  daily  la- 
bour. The  sun,  rising  over  the  hills,  flung  little 
broken  rays  of  light  through  the  sycamores  grow- 
ing outside  the  door  of  Maura  The  Rosses. 

Oiney  Leahy  was  putting  on  a  fire  when  Doalty 
got  to  his  house,  and  young  Dennys  The  Drover 
was  there,  sitting  by  the  table  looking  at  a  news- 
paper. He  had  not  slept  the  night  before,  for 
when  he  got  back  from  the  fair,  he  went  out  with 
Oiney  and  the  two  men  made  their  way  to  the  hills 
on  one  of  their  mysterious  errands.  These  errands 
were  of  common  occurrence,  and  the  police  force  of 
the  village  would  give  a  lot  to  catch  the  two  men 
when  engaged  on  them. 

"I  was  goin'  down  to  the  river  to  have  a  swirn," 
Dennys  remarked  to  Doalty  as  the  latter  came  in. 
"But  I  was  too  heavy  and  sleepy  to  get  up  from  the 
chair.  Thanks  be  to  heaven  that  there's  not  a  fair 
every  day." 

"  'Twasn't  much  iv  a  fair  yesterday  anyway," 
said  Oiney,  placing  a  row  of  turf  against  the  back 
of  the  fireplace.  "I've  never  seen  any  as  bad  for  a 
long  while.  .  .  .  And  that  cow  iv  yours,  Doalty," 
he  said,  looking  at  the  visitor.  "It's  not  a  bad  baste 
at  all,  and  it'll  be  comin'*  soon.  But  ye  gave  a 
wee  penny  too  much  for  it,  I'm  thinkin'.  .  .  .  But 
one  never  knows." 

*  Calving. 


Sheila  Dermod  169 

"It'll  be  worth  the  money  when  it  calves/'  said 
Doalty  carelessly. 

"Oh!  it  may,  then,  and  I  hope  it  may,"  said 
Oiney,  apparently  endeavouring  to  give  Doalty 
every  possible  credit  for  the  bargain.  "If  the  mar- 
ket improves,  and  if  it  calves  well,  ye'll  maybe  make 
somethin'  by  it."  He  spoke  with  the  voice  of  a 
man  who  did  not  believe  in  the  hopes  which  he 
held  out. 

"Here,  look  at  this,"  said  Drover  Dennys,  hand- 
ing the  paper  to  Oiney  and  yawning.  "This  pic- 
ture. It's  of  a  woman  and  she  looks  a  funny  card. 
Hasn't  a  rag  to  her  back  hardly." 

Oiney  took  the  paper,  looked  at  it,  and  the  ex- 
pression on  his  face  became  invulnerably  solemn. 
Doalty  gazed  over  the  old  man's  shoulder  and  saw. 
the  photo  of  an  actress,  attired  in  tights,  who  was 
then  appearing  on  a  London  music  hall.  The  paper 
had  been  used  in  wrapping  up  a  second-hand  coat 
which  Oiney  had  bought  at  the  fair. 

"She's  a  shameless  hussy  true  enough,"  said 
Oiney,  with  emphasis  on  the  adjective,  handing  the 
paper  back  to  Dennys.  "Do  the  people  often  dress 
like  that  in  London?"  he  asked,  looking  at  Doalty. 

"It's  the  custom  sometimes,"  said  Doalty,  with 
a  smile. 

"There  are  strange  customs  every  place,"  said 
Oiney,  trying,  as  it  seemed,  to  get  this  custom  into 
line  with  some  of  his  own  fundamental  views  of 
life.  "Now  look  up  at  the  mountainy  people  and 
the  ways  they  have,"  he  said.  "If  they  see  the 
smoke  iv  a  house,  where  there's  a  dead  one  under- 


170  Glenmornan 

board,  they'll  not  do  a  hand's  turn  until  the  berry- 
in'  is  done  and  finished.  But  down  this  arm  iv  the 
glen  it's  only  the  townland  that  leaves  off  work 
when  one  in  it  is  dead.  In  Stranameera  here,  they 
carry  a  coffin  on  the  shoulders  to  the  graveyard, 
and  won't  carry  it  any  other  way,  out  iv  respect  for 
them  that's  gone.  But  over  in  Meenawarawor 
they'll  take  the  coffin  in  a  cart  and  not  mean  any 
harm  be  it. 

"Then  look  at  the  Night  of  the  Dead,"  he  went 
on.  "Here  in  Glenmornan  we  go  down  on  our 
knees  in  our  own  home,  and  say  the  Pather-an- 
Awe  for  the  sufferin'  souls  in  Purgatory,  but  down 
in  the  Rosses,  they  go  to  the  graveyard  that  night 
at  twelve,  and  say  their  prayers  there. 

"The  Meenawarawor  girsas  go  'ut  to  the  field 
and  spread  the  dung  on  the  ridges  with  their  fin- 
gers, or  go  'ut  to  the  byre  and  clean  it  when  it's 
the  thing  to  do,"  he  continued.  "But  catch  the 
Stranameera  girls  doin'  that,  the  proud  heifers, 
and  they  not  a  bit  better  to  look  at  than  the  girls  iv 
Meenawarawor.  So  ye  see  it  even  here,  Doalty," 
the  old  man  concluded,  with  the  tone  of  a  preacher 
who  has  made  his  point  manifest.  "One  barony 
or  one  townland  is  not  the  same  as  another  and 
each  of  them  has  its  own  habits  iv  doin'  things. 
And  foreign  parts  will  have  their  own  ways,  for 
that's  the  kind  iv  the  world." 

Drover  Dennys,  who  was  still  looking  at  the 
actress,  raised  his  head. 

"Is  this  rale?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  of  unusual 
animation,  "or  is  it  only  a  picture?" 


Sheila  Dermod  171 

"Oh,  it's  real/'  said  Doalty  Gallagher.  "I've 
seen  that  woman  dressed  like  that  at  a  music-hall." 

"And  ye  paid  to  see  it?"  asked  Oiney  Leahy. 
"How  much  did  it  cost  ye?" 

"Oh,  half-a-crown,"  said  Doalty. 

Oiney  took  the  paper  out  of  Dennys'  hands 
again  and  looked  at  it  with  eyes  of  increased  in- 
terest. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see  she's  bare  to  the  pelt,"  he 
said.  "Arms,  legs,  everything!" 

"No,  not  the  legs,"  said  Doalty.  "She  has  got 
tights  on,  a  tight  pair  of  drawers,  which  are  made 
to  look  as  if  they  were  not  on." 

"And  what  would  that  be  for  now?"  enquired 
the  old  man.  "It  must  be  a  funny  thing  for  a  girl 
to  come  out  before  people  as  naked  as  a  rush  on  a 
bog." 

"She  gets  paid  to  do  it,"  said  Doalty.  "She 
stands  on  the  stage  like  that  for  fifteen  minutes  or 
so  every  night,  and  the  money  she  gets  for  a  week 
would  buy  your  farm  of  land  twice  over." 

"Well,  it's  money  goin'  to  loss,"  said  Oiney, 
shaking  his  head.  "If  a  woman  sib  to  me  done 
that,  the  back  iv  me  hand  to  her  no  matter  what 
she'd  make  be  it.  Never  would  I  let  her  get  under 
me  roof." 

"But  people  abroad  like  it,"  said  Doalty.  "And 
that  girl  has  more  clothes  on  her  than  some  girls 
here.  See  the  Stranameera  girls  at  the  washing 
by  the  brookside,  when  they  are  tramping  the 
clothes,  with  their  skirts  pulled  up  over  their  knees ! 


172  Glenmornan 

If  they  were  seen  doing  that  in  London,  they  would 
be  put  into  prison." 

"I  suppose  that  bears  out  what  I've  said  a  minute 
gone,"  said  Oiney.  "Every  townland  has  its  own 
manners  and  that's  all  about  it.  Isn't  it  now  ?" 

"I  suppose  it  is;  and  again  look  at  this,  which 
happens  here,"  said  Doalty.  "The  young  boys  and 
girls  go  into  the  fair  of  Greenanore  and  boys  treat 
the  girls,  taking  them  into  a  public-house  and  a 
bedroom  to  have  a  drink.  It's  the  custom  here,  but 
abroad  it  would  not  be  allowed." 

"Foreign  parts  have  their  own  ways  iv  goin'," 
said  Oiney.  "And  it  would  be  a  sorry  day  here  if 
a  young  fellow  was  not  allowed  to  have  fun  with 
the  girsas." 

"Ah,  but  it's  hard  to  know  what  fun  like  that 
might  lead  to,"  said  Doalty. 


ii 


"What  would  it  be  leadin'  to?"  said  the  old  man, 
his  voice  a  little  severe,  as  if  reproaching  Doalty 
for  thinking  evil  of  local  habits.  "It  ud  be  a  poor 
day  that  a  Glenmornan  girl  would  come  to  harm 
with  a  Glenmornan  man.  A  girl  here,  has  more 
sense  than  that,  and  it  doesn't  take  the  law  to  take 
care  iv  them  when  they're  out  for  the  bit  iv  fun. 
.  .  .  God  forbid  me  seein'  the  day  that  a  gasair 
here  would  play  dirty  with  a  girsa.  Lave  that  for 
them  abroad.  .  .  . 

"Once  somethin'  did  take  place  here,"  the  old 


Sheila  Dermod  173 

man  went  on,  after  a  short  silence.  "One  of  the 
men  from  the  butt  end  iv  the  barony  did  come  home 
ifrom  abroad  and  he  begin  goin'  after  wee  Eiveleen 
Murraghar,  her  that  was,  bad  cess  to  her!  blood 
relation  iv  me  own.  Well,  this  toe-rag  iv  a  man 
went  away  from  here,  after  he  stayed  for  short  on 
three  months,  but  the  harm  was  done  when  he  left. 
Eiveleen  became  the  mother  iv  a  child  that  no  man 
would  lay  claim  to,  and  all  because  she  wasn't  as 
wise  as  a  girsa  should  be.  But  them  that's  in  the 
barony  now  have  got  sense  and  are  as  knowin'  as 
any  good  girls  can  be." 

The  old  man  was  quite  correct  in  his  estimate, 
and  this  Doalty  knew.  Though  the  sex  instinct  is 
as  strong  in  Glenmornan  as  any  part  of  the  world, 
the  peasants'  purity  of  manners  are  a  strong  safe- 
guard against  any  irregularities.  Having  fun  with 
a  girl  at  a  fair  means  nothing  more  than  a  treat  and 
a  little  flirtation  in  a  private  room  of  a  public- 
house.  A  man  and  woman,  not  bound  together  by 
legal  union,  who  enter  a  bedroom  in  a  great  city, 
are  looked  on  with  suspicious  eyes,  but  in  Greena- 
nore,  where  almost  every  room  in  a  house  is  a  bed- 
room, a  happening  of  this  kind  is  viewed  from  a 
different  standpoint.  The  young  men  and  women 
of  the  Barony  of  Burrach,  strict  guardians  of  their 
virtue,  seldom  fall  short  in  their  observance  oi 
chaste  morality.  The  discreet  modesty  of  the 
peasant  girls  is  strong  enough  to  resist  any  wrong 
advances. 

Drover  Dennys  had  hold  of  the  paper  again.  His 
iface  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 


174  Glenmornan 

"Here,  listen  to  this  that's  in  this  paper,"  he  said. 
"  'Catching  hold  of  Doris  with  his  two  strong 
arms/  "  he  read,  "  'Fred  Reynolds  pressed  his  lips 
against  hers.'  God!  they're  always  kissin'  the  girls 
over  in  foreign  parts,"  he  remarked,  putting  his 
head  to  one  side  and  quizzing  at  Doalty  with  his 
clear  grey  eyes.  "It's  a  wonder  that  they  don't 
get  tired  iv  it.  ...  There's  not  much  kissin'  done 
hereabouts." 

"And  that's  as  it  should  be,"  said  Oiney.  '"A 
kiss  is  an  invitation  to  do  something  that  is  not  in 
keepin'  with  decency  and  good  manners." 

"But  it's  not  wrong  to  kiss  a  girl,"  said  Dennys 
The  Drover. 

"It's  a  sin,"  said  Oiney  gravely.  "And  if  a  girl 
would  let  a  man  kiss  her  it  shows  the  poor  pur- 
chase she  holds  on  her  soul.  Did  ye  ever  kiss  a 
girl,  Dennys?"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  yet,  but  I  will  one  iv  these  fine  days," 
said  the  young  man,  with  an  air  of  reckless  de- 
cision. 

"Ah !  indeed  and  ye  won't,  me  dacent  boy,"  said 
Oiney,  and  there  was  reproof  in  his  voice.  "It 
might  lead  ye  astray.  It's  the  first  step  into  the 
worst  iv  all  sins,  the  sin  iv  the  flesh." 

The  two  young  men  laughed. 

"Ye're  a  funny  old  shanahy,  Oiney,"  said  Drover 
Dennys.  "Ye  think  that  every  sin  is  a  bad  one 
only  the  ones  that  ye  are  guilty  iv  yerself." 

"If  it's  the  drink  that  ye  mane,  I'll  give  way  to 
ye  and  say  that  it's  a  sin  against  God  and  man," 
said  Oiney.  "But  then,  Dennys,  me  boy,  men  were 


Sheila  Dermod  175 

made  to  sin.    Badness  is  in  the  body  iv  every  man." 

"So  you  think  that  the  sin  of  the  flesh  is  the 
worst  of  all?"  Doalty  enquired. 

"It  is  then,"  said  Oiney.  "The  sin,  and  every- 
thing that  gives  rise  to  it,  is  bad.  And  givin'  a 
kiss  to  a  girl  is  not  to  be  thought  iv,  if  one  wants  to 
live  a  dacent  and  holy  life.  .  .  .  They  may  kiss 
abroad,  but  it's  not  for  Glenmornan  people  to  fol- 
low a  bad  example.  It's  a  sin  to  kiss  any  one  bar 
the  dead  here;  but  a  mother  is  allowed  to  kiss  her 
children  until  they  come  to  the  age  iv  seven.  After 
that  it's  a  mortal  sin  for  her  to  kiss  them.  For  me- 
self  I  never  kissed  any  woman,  bar  me  wife,  and 
that  was  before  she  was  underboard.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  the  young  men  and  stroked  his 
beard. 

"None  iv  ye  have  the  drouth?"  he  asked.  A! 
sly  look  crept  into  his  eyes,  as  he  went  over  to  the 
bed  and  brought  out  the  black  bottle.  "Just  some- 
thin'  to  sweeten  our  discourse,"  he  said,  catching 
the  cork  with  his  teeth  and  drawing  it. 

"Has  the  fairies  been  havin'  ye  in  their  mind 
again?"  asked  Dennys,  and  he  fixed  a  knowing 
look  on  Oiney.  Both  laughed,  not  so  much  at  the 
joke,  as  the  fact,  that  a  secret  between  the  two  men 
was  not  known  to  Doalty  Gallagher. 


in 


Leaving  Oiney    Leahy's  with  a  spade  across  his 
shoulder,  Doalty  saw  Sheila  Dermod  in  front  of 


176  Glenmornan 

him  on  her  way  to  a  neighbouring  shop  for  provi- 
sions. She  was  walking  through  the  wet  grass, 
carrying  eggs  in  a  spotted  handkerchief.  Sheila 
had  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  this  fell  down  over 
her  magnificent  shoulders,  with  one  fringe  reach- 
ing her  hips.  She  was  barefooted  and  wearing  a 
short  baunagh-brockagh  petticoat  that  reached  a 
little  lower  than  her  knee.  The  hem  of  the  petti- 
coat kept  rubbing  backwards  and  forwards  across 
the  girl's  shapely  calves.  At  every  step  she  raised 
a  neat  little  foot  high  over  the  swaying  heads  of  the 
ripple  grasses  and  looked  back  with  a  swift,  dis- 
creet glance  at  Doalty  Gallagher.  The  young  man 
was  trying  to  pluck  up  sufficient  courage  to  call 
to  her. 

"Sheila?"  he  said  suddenly,  in  a  Hoarse  whisper. 

The  girl  turned  the  tail  of  her  eye  round,  but 
did  not  answer.  Probably  she  had  not  heard  what 
he  said.  Doalty  called  to  her  again,  and  again  she 
looked  back,  but  said  nothing.  However,  she 
shortened  her  steps  and  walked  more  leisurely, 
waiting  for  him  to  overtake  her,  and  curious  to 
hear  what  he  had  got  to  say. 

Doalty  overtook  her. 

''I'm  sorry  about  what  happened  last  night, 
Sheila,"  he  said,  with  an  awkward  laugh.  "I  didn't 
think  that  you  would  get  so  angry  with  me." 

The  girl  raised  her  eyes,  looked  upwards  and 
nodded  her  head  without  speaking.  In  her  look, 
Doalty  fancied  he  saw  reproach  for  his  behaviour 
of  the  previous  night. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  very  angry  with  me," 


Sheila  Dermod  177 

he  said  nervously,  and  a  moment's  silence  followed. 
He  could  hear  the  girl's  feet  brushing  against  the 
long  grass.  She  did  not  answer  Doalty,  but  seemed 
to  be  waiting  to  hear  him  say  something  further. 

"You  know  I  did  not  intend  to  do  you  any  harm, 
Sheila,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  harm  ye'd  be  wantin'  to 
do  to  me,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  said  the  girl.  "Ye 
don't  think  that  I'd  let  ye,  do  ye  now  ?" 

"I  don't  mean  what  you  mean,"  said  Doalty  re- 
proachfully. 

"What  d'ye  mean  then?"  asked  Sheila,  with  a 
sidelong  glance.  "I  don't  know  what  ye're  meanin' 
at  all.  You're  a  funny  boy,  Doalty  Gallagher." 

"Am  I?"  he  laughed,  and  felt  that  a  more  confi- 
dential intimacy  had  suddenly  sprung  up  between 
himself  and  the  girl. 

They  came  to  the  march  ditch  without  another 
word.  There  they  stopped,  and  Doalty  asked, 
"What  time  are  you  taking  down  the  cows  from 
the  hill  to-night,  Sheila?" 

"The  same  time  as  every  night,"  murmured  the 
girl  with  a  look  of  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "Just  when 
it's  gettin'  dark." 

You  take  them  down  through  the  awlth,  don't 
you?" 

"I  take  them  down  that  way,"  said  Sheila. 

-Tm  going  up  there  to  cut  an  ash-plant  when  it's 
growing  dark  to-night,  so  I'll  look  out  for  you, 
Sheila,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  husky  voice. 
"Don't  forget  that,  Sheila,  and  don't  go  and  hide 
when  you  see  me." 


178  Glenmornan 

"Hide !  no  fear,"  said  the  girl  with  a  smile.  "But 
mind,  if  ye  come,  ye  are  not  to  be  the  same  as  ye 
were  last  night.  If  ye  are,  I'll  not  ever  speak  one 
word  to  you  again,  Doalty  Gallagher." 

Walking  sedately,  the  girl  went  down  towards 
the  road.  On  the  way  into  his  home  Doalty  en- 
countered his  mother,  who  was  looking  over  the 
hedge,  one  eye  on  the  doings  of  her  neighbours  and 
another  on  the  stocking  which  she  was  knitting. 

"Did  ye  get  the  spade  from  old  Oiney?"  she 
asked,  and  Doalty  judged  by  her  tone  and  the 
downward  droop  of  the  corner  of  her  lips,  that  the 
question  was  a  prelude  to  talk  of  a  more  serious 
nature.  Doalty  recollected  that  this  tone  and  look 
of  hers  was  assumed  of  old,  when  she  held  a  birch 
in  her  hand,  and  when  the  children  had  been  trou- 
blesome. 

"I  have  got  the  spade,"  said  the  young  man,  as 
he  put  it  on  the  ground. 

>     "Was  Dennys  The  Drover  over  there?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  Dennys  is  over  in  Oiney's  now." 

?'He  was  with  Eileen  Kelly  in  Ryan's  last  night 
they're  saying,"  said  the  woman,  meaning  by 
"they"  the  people  of  the  glen. 

"Was  he?"  Doalty  enquired. 

"And  ye  know  that  he  was,  ye,  yerself,"  said 
tfie  mother,  "for  weren't  ye  with  him  there?" 

"Who  has  been  telling  you  this?"  asked  Doalty 
in  an  angry  voice,  but  feeling  more  discomfited 
than  annoyed. 

"Who,  but  every  one,"  said  the  mother,  plying 


Sheila  Dermod  179 

her  needles  rapidly,  as  if  her  very  life  depended 
on  the  job.  "It's  the  talk  iv  the  whole  townland 
this  day.  It's  bad  enough  to  see  ye  spendin'  yer 
money  on  that  cow,  but  then  to  take  and  go  about 
with  Sheila  Dermod  and  trate  her  when  ye  could 
get  girls  that's  yer  own  equal  who  would  be  only 
too  glad  to  have  yer  company." 

Maura  The  Rosses  compressed  her  lips  and  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  hills  that  rose  from  the  other  side  of 
the  river.  She  still  continued  knitting  and  Doalty 
could  see  that  she  was  dropping  every  second  stitch. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  Sheila  Dermod," 
said  Doalty  gruffly.  "I  don't  see  any  harm  in 
speaking  to  the  girl.  Have  you  got  some  grudge 
against  her?"  he  asked. 

"Thinkin'  that  I'd  stoop  so  low  as  to  have  a 
grudge  against  a  one  like  Sheila  Dermod!"  said 
Maura  The  Rosses,  disdain  in  her  voice.  "She's 
so  proud,  and  so  is  her  mother!  Wait  till  ye  see 
what  will  happen  if  ye  keep  runnin'  about  after 
her.  She'll  make  ye  the  laughin'  stock  iv  the  whole 
glen." 

With  these  words,  Maura  The  Rosses  left  her 
son  and  passed  into  the  house. 

Doalty  went  out  to  the  field  and  began  digging  a 
drain  which  was  intended  to  divert  the  flood  waters 
from  the  meadows  in  the  rainy  season.  As  he 
worked  he  thought  of  his  mother's  temper  and 
laughed  to  himself.  "The  way  she  hates  Sheila!" 
he  muttered.  "Why  is  there  such  bad  feeling  be- 
tween some  families?  .  .  .  Looking  down  on  one 
another  because  of  an  extra  cow's  grass  or  an  extra 


180  Glenmornan 

acre  of  spadeland.  .  .  .  But  is  it  not  the  same  all 
the  world  over  ?  .  .  .  Petty  spite  and  jealousy.  The 
same  everywhere." 

Doalty  laboured  obstinately  for  half  an  hour, 
without  looking  round.  Then  he  straightened  him- 
self and  gazed  down  the  road  to  see  Sheila  coming 
back  from  the  shop,  a  large  parcel  under  her  shawl. 
...  He  bent  to  his  work  again,  and  suddenly  his 
fancy  brought  the  girl  to  his  side,  her  arms  pressed 
tightly  round  his  neck  and  her  eyes  looking  down 
into  his.  He  could  see  her  soft,  dark  brown  hair 
falling  over  her  shoulders,  her  full  white  throat 
and  her  red  seductive  lips  responding  to  his 
kisses.  .  .  . 

That  evening,  when  darkness  was  falling,  Doalty 
was  in  the  awlth,  waiting  for  her  to  bring  in  the 
cattle. 


IV 


It  was  very  pleasant  to  sit  there  in  the  awlth, 
drinking  in  the  night  and  gazing  down  on  the  glen 
between  the  hills.  Doalty  in  his  heart  felt  a  greater 
love  than  ever  for  his  native  place,  for  the  white 
houses  with  their  snug  coverings  of  thatch  and 
their  lights,  already  burning,  gleaming  modestly 
through  the  windows,  for  the  clear  streams  scoot- 
ing down  over  the  rocks  and  meandering  lazily 
through  the  calm  meadows,  for  the  Owenawadda 
eeling  its  way  seawards,  and  more  than  anything 
else,  for  the  kind-hearted  people  who  dwelt  there, 
the  honest  people  of  Glenmornan. 


Sheila  Dermod  181 

Over  Carnaween  the  new  moon,  a  mere  sickle, 
was  showing.  Under  it  the  mountain  stood  still 
and  attentive,  as  if  listening  to  the  sounds  of  the 
world  that  lay  beneath  it.  The  awlth  was  full  of 
vague  whisperings  and  rustlings  and  no  wonder! 
for  it  was  here  that  the  gentle  people  often  held 
their  nightly  revels.  A  belated  bee  drummed 
through  the  undergrowth  on  the  search  for  its 
home;  a  birch  that  grew  by  Doalty's  side,  bent 
down  towards  him,  moving  its  arms  in  a  mysterious 
manner;  a  bat  fluttered  into  air,  circled  round  and 
round  for  a  moment,  and  disappeared.  From 
where  he  sat  Doalty  could  not  see  a  soul,  but  all 
manner  of  sounds  floated  up  to  him  from  the  glen, 
the  happy  laughter  of  merry  children,  the  sharp 
cries  of  the  women  driving  the  cattle  into  their 
byres,  and  the  loud  shouting  of  men,  calling  to  their 
neighbours  across  the  march-ditches. 

"Ah !  she'll  soon  be  here,"  he  said  to  himself,  his 
mind  full  of  complex  thoughts  and  emotions.  Al- 
though he  had  sat  there  for  quite  a  long  time,  he 
felt  as  breathless  as  if  he  had  just  rushed  all  the 
way  up  from  his  home  to  the  awlth  on  the  brae- 
face. 

An  old  speckled  cow  came  along  on  its  way  to 
the  byre.  It  stopped  when  it  saw  Doalty,  fixed  a 
pair  of  big,  serious  eyes  on  the  young  man,  then 
flicked  its  hind  legs  with  its  tail  and  soberly  pur- 
sued its  journey.  Following  the  cow,  a  young 
heifer  rattled  into  view,  stopped  dead  when  it  saw 
the  stranger,  and  gave  a  snort  of  surprise.  For  a 
moment  it  gazed  dubiously  at  the  man,  then  with  a 


1 82  Glenmornan 

wild  rush  it  careered  by  him,  down  the  awlth,  send- 
ing the  stones  flying  against  the  bushes. 

Sheila  came  into  sight  and  saw  the  young  man. 
Although  expecting  him  her  face  flushed  when  he 
rose  to  meet  her. 

"This  yerself,  Doalty  Gallagher?"  she  asked. 

For  answer  Doalty  reached  and  caught  both  her 
hands  in  his.  She  resisted  a  little  and  caught  her 
breath,  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  sob.  Doalty  pressed 
her  fingers  timidly,  but  Sheila  did  not  raise  her 
-eyes  to  look  at  him. 

"Let  me  be,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "The  cattle 
are  near  down  at  the  house  now,  and  who'll  tie 
them?" 

"Sheila,  do  you  like  me?"  asked  Doalty  and  tried 
to  put  his  arms  round  her.  She  pulled  herself 
away,  but  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"I  like  ye,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  she  replied. 
"There's  no  reason  for  not  likin'  ye.  Only,  last 
night "  she  stammered  and  stopped. 

"But  I  only  kissed  you,  Sheila.  There  was  no 
harm  in  that,  surely." 

"But  it's  a  sin,"  said  the  girl  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "Now  let  me  go,  won't  ye,  till  I  tie  up  the 
cattle." 

"Well,  let  me  kiss  you,  now,"  said  Doalty  coax- 
ingly.  "Just  once,  and  then  you  can  go  away 
down  to  the  house.  .  .  .  It's  not  a  sin.  .  .  .  Every- 
body does  it." 

He  hardly  knew  what  he  was  talking  about 

"Just  once  and  then  you  can  go,"  he  repeated. 

"Don't,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  Sheila  faltered,  in  a 


Sheila  Dermod  183 

frightened  voice,  as  she  saw  Doalty's  face  close  to 
hers. 

"But  you're  not  afraid  of  me,  are  you?" 

"I  am.  .  .  ." 

"But  it's  silly;  it " 

"Let  me  be,  Doalty.  Do  now.  I  want  to  go 
home.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  was  beseeching. 

"I'm  in  love  with  you,  Sheila  Dermod,"  said 
Doalty,  drawing  the  girl  close  into  his  side.  "I've 
never  loved  anybody  before." 

"Did  ye  not  ?"  she  asked,  still  trying  to  free  her 
hands. 

:"Never  till  I  met  you,  Sheila,"  said  Doalty. 
--You  believe  that,  don't  you?" 

"How  am  I  to  know?" 

Even  as  she  spoke,  she  freed  herself  from  Doal- 
ty's embrace  with  an  agile  movement  and  scram- 
bled down  the  awlth,  scattering  the  stones  from 
under  her  with  her  bare  feet.  Getting  to  a  safe 
distance,  she  looked  back  and  laughed. 

"Good  night,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  she  called  in 
a  whisper  and  ran  away. 

The  man  felt  annoyed,  exasperated.  What  a 
fool  he  was  making  of  himself,  he  thought. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  could  hear  Sheila  tying 
up  the  cattle  and  scolding  them. 

"Come  here,  ye  wee  divil,  ye !"  he  heard  her  say. 
"Ye're  standin'  on  me  feet,  ye  rogue.  .  .  .  Now! 
Now !  Don't  be  tryin'  to  stick  me  in  the  eye  with 
yer  horns." 

"I  believe  she  looks  on  me  as  some  sort  of  nat- 


184  Glenmornan 

ural  curiosity,"  Doalty  said  to  himself,  as  he  lay 
in  his  bed  that  night.  A  vague  resentment  rose 
in  his  heart  against  the  girl.  "She's  making  a  fool 
of  me,"  he  whispered.  "I  amuse  her  and  .  .  . 
Well,  it  doesn't  matter." 

He  wondered  what  the  affair  would  lead  to ;  how 
it  would  end.  Something  would  certainly  hap- 
pen. .  .  .  Life  surely  had  not  the  same  monotony 
of  a  repeating  decimal.  Things  would  change.  If 
Sheila  got  married  to  somebody — not  to  himself,  of 
course — he  could  see  more  clearly.  Everything 
would  then  be  simplified.  But  now,  nothing  was 
sure.  Sheila  obstructed  his  outlook.  She  was  real, 
and  something  he  desired  exceedingly. 

"I'll  try  and  sleep !"  he  said  with  petulant  resig- 
nation. 

But  he  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  his  head  full 
of  thoughts  of  the  girl.  He  slept  heavily  and 
awoke  early,  as  tired  as  when  he  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


BREED  DERMOD 

To  the  Hard  Woman  the  back  of  your  hand, 

The  Woman  not  liked  in  her  own  townland. 

The  road  to  her  doorstep  is  snug  and  neat, 

For  it  never  is  tramped  by  a  beggar's  feet. 

The  Man  of  the  House  is  a  quiet  soul, 

For  a  word  from  his  lips  she'll  never  thole ; 

And  the  woman's  children  know  their  place, 

And  they  know  the  birch  on  the  chimney-brace. 

Tidy  and  thrifty  she  toils  and  spins 

At  the  shut  of  day  and  when  day  begins, 

And  the  dust  she  sweeps  from  the  hearth  and  floor 

Comes  back  in  gold  to  the  woman's  door; 

But  people  like  her  and  ones  of  her  get 

Are  never  much  loved  wherever  they're  set, 

And  her  neighbours  say,  "The  back  iv  the  hand 

To  a  woman  not  liked  in  her  own  townland." 

— The  Hard  Woman. 


MAURA    The    Rosses    was    a    very    civil 
woman  with  little  to  say.     But  she  was 
very   curious   about   the   doings   of   her 
neighbours  and  the  doings  of  Breed  Dermod  in 
particular.     Seeing  that  there  was  bad  blood  be- 
tween herself  and  Breed,  it  was  natural  that  she 
should    be    interested    in    the    woman's    doings. 
Maura  kept  surreptitious  watch  on  the  Dermods, 
185 


1 86  Glenmornan 

although  she  tried  to  act  as  if  she  were  not  aware 
of  their  existence.  If  any  untoward  happening  oc- 
curred on  the  Dermods'  farm,  if  a  cow  broke  loose 
from  the  fields,  if  a  neighbour  came  to  thatch  their 
house,  or  if  Oiney  Leahy  entered  into  a  loud-voiced 
conversation  with  Breed  across  the  ditch,  Maura 
The  Rosses  set  about  washing  the  floor  of  her  own 
house. 

To  do  this,  it  was  necessary  to  go  out  to  the  well 
for  water,  and  from  the  well  it  was  an  easy  job  to 
keep  an  eye  on  the  Dermods  and  see,  or  hear, 
whatever  was  taking  place  there.  Maura  often 
washed  the  stone  floor  and  when  doing  so,  she  al- 
ways went  out  for  the  water  herself.  So,  who 
could  blame  her  if  she  heard  and  saw  things  when 
engaged  on  her  own  honest  work?  Doalty  often 
noticed  these  happenings,  but  now,  when  he  had 
become  interested  in  the  why  and  wherefore  of  the 
feud,  he  did  not  dare  to  ask  his  mother  any  ques- 
tions about  the  matter. 

Not  being  able  to  ask  his  mother  he  asked  his 
sister  Norah. 

"What's  the  quarrel  between  us  and  the  Der- 
mods?" he  enquired. 

"Why  do  ye  want  to  know  that?"  Norah  asked. 
She  was  sitting  by  the  table  with  Kitty  and  both 
were  looking  at  a  boudoir  cap  which  the  latter  had 
just  completed.  The  convent  school,  in  the  village, 
was  making  great  efforts  to  educate  the  young 
peasant  girls,  teaching  them  cookery  and  sewing. 
The  young  girls  were  ready  and  willing  to  be 
taught.  "If  we  had  the  things  that's  wanted,"  the 


Breed  Dermod  187 

little  ones  often  remarked,  with  a  touching  pathos 
in  their  voices,  "we  could  make  the  nicest  things 
that  the  glen  ever  seen."  As  it  was,  they  acquired 
arts,  but  not  the  material  to  make  those  arts  mani- 
fest. 

"Well,  it's  a  strange  thing  having  a  quarrel  with 
the  Dermods,"  said  Doalty.  "They  don't  seem  to 
be  doing  any  harm  to  us.  When  I  was  at  home, 
long  ago,  they  were  great  friends  of  ours." 

"Is  that  all  ye  know?"  said  Norah,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head.  "The  old  woman  was  big  enough  with 
us  as  long  as  she  was  behoulden  to  us  for  ajnything. 
But  when  a  brother  iv  hers,  that  is  beyont  the 
water,  began  to  send  her  some  money,  she  got  as 
proud  as  the  hills  and  wouldn't  say  a  word  at  all 
to  us  after  that.  Before  she  got  the  money,  it  was 
Sheila,  her  that's  so  proud  now,  comin'  in  in  the 
mornin'  for  a  grater;  in  the  middle  iv  the  day  for 
the  len  iv  a  scoop  iv  male,  and  be  night  for  some- 
thin'  else.  Now  if  it's  passin'  the  door  that  she  is, 
she  looks  to  the  other  side  iv  the  road.  .  .  .  She's 
as  distant  as  the  town  people  and  why  it  is,  I  don't 
know.  For  she's  one  iv  the  lowest  iv  the  low." 

"Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  the  lowest  of  the 
low  ?"  Doalty  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"Ye're  always  laughin'  at  me,"  said  the  girl. 
"I  don't  know  why,  but  I  suppose  it's  because  I'm 
not  smart  like  the  ones  that's  over  beyont  the 
water." 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  you,  Norah,"  said  Doalty, 
feeling  a  little  awkward.  "But  you  have  a  funny 
way  of  looking  at  things,  Norah." 


1 88  Glenmornan 

"Well,  I  suppose  ye  yerself  was  like  me  one 
time,"  said  the  girl.  "But  that  ye  went  out  into 
the  world  and  saw  things,  ye  now  look  down  on  us 
at  home.  I  don't  like  people  that  bees  like  that." 

"Bees  like  that,"  Kitty  sniffed,  for  being  a  con- 
vent girl  she  was  far  above  such  local  idioms. 

"And  ye  yerself  will  grow  up  like  Doalty,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Norah  to  her  superior  sister. 

"And  ye'll  be  runnin'  after  Dennys  The  Dro' 
ver,"  Kitty  retorted. 

Norah  blushed.  Doalty  looked  at  her  and 
laughed. 

"So  every  girl  in  the  place  is  after  Dennys,"  he 
said. 

Maura  The  Rosses  came  into  the  house  at  that 
moment,  carrying  a  bucket  of  water.  She  was 
washing  the  floor  although  she  had  been  engaged 
on  the  job  only  the  day  before.  Emptying  the  water 
on  the  flags,  she  began  scrubbing  them  with  a 
besom.  Presently  she  stopped,  and  looking  at  no- 
body in  particular,  she  pointed  her  thumb  over  her 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  Breed  Dermod's. 

"The  woman  up  there  is  goin'  down  the  brae 
with  her  boots  on,"  she  said ;  "and  I  wonder  where 
she'll  be  goin'  to." 

"She'll  be  goin'  over  to  Ardagh,"  said  Kitty, 
knowing  that  Breed  Dermod,  who  generally  went 
about  barefooted,  was  going  a  good  journey  be- 
cause she  had  put  her  boots  on. 

"I  wonder  what  she'll  be  goin'  there  for  now," 
said  Maura  The  Rosses,  trying  to  speak  as  if  she 
had  very  little  interest  in  the  matter. 


Breed  Dermod  189 

"I  know/'  said  Norah.  "Owen  Briney  was 
speakin'  about  it  the  other  day.  She's  goin'  over; 
there  to  see  about  gettin'  her  house  slated." 

"Slated!"  exclaimed  Maura  The  Rosses,  making 
no  effort  to  hide  her  surprise.  "Goin'  to  get  her 
house  slated.  And  where  will  she  get  the  money, 
I'd  like  to  know?  Owen  Briney  is  often  sayin' 
things  that  there's  not  much  truth  in." 

By  her  manner  of  speaking,  it  was  evident  to 
Doalty  that  his  mother  hoped  that  there  was  no 
truth  in  Owen  Briney's  statement. 

"There's  not  a  lie  in  it,  I  think,"  said  Norah. 
-Breed  got  a  big  lump  in  the  last  letter  from 
America.  Her  brother,  out  there,  has  money  and 
to  spare." 

"But  to  get  her  house  slated!"  said  Maura  THe 
Rosses,  contracting  her  brows,  as  if  in  an  effort  to 
discover  why  this  could  not  be  done.  "Well,  I  don't 
know,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  silence.  "I  don't 
know  at  all  what  to  make  iv  it !" 

She  went  out  by  the  front  door  with  the  bucket 
in  her  hand,  although  previously  she  always  made 
the  journey  to  the  well  by  way  of  the  back  door. 
But  that  would  not  give  her  a  view  of  the  glen 
road.  When  she  came  back  she  spoke  about  Breed 
Dermod  again. 

"She's  away  down  the  road  now,  as  hard  as  she 
can  pelt,"  she  said.  "And  she's  holdin'  her  head 
up  too." 


190  Glenmornan 


ii 

Maura  The  Rosses  placed  the  bucket  on  the  floor 
and  looked  at  Doalty. 

"This  house  iv  ours  would  look  very  nice  if  it 
had  the  slates,"  she  said.  "If  I  had  enough  money 
I'd  have  slates  on  it  long  ago.  But  then,  one  can't 
do  everything." 

"A  thatched  house  looks  much  nicer,"  said 
Doalty,  who  did  not  want  to  see  a  world  of  slates 
come  into  his  picture  of  Glenmornan.  It  would  not 
be  in  keeping  with  the  memories  of  his  youth.  But 
people  with  slated  houses  were  considered  well  to 
do,  as  it  took  money  for  the  job,  and  when  a  peas- 
ant was  able  to  afford  the  money  he  got  his  house 
slated. 

"But  every  one  that  can  is  gettin'  the  slates  on 
now,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses.  "Over  in  Meena- 
warawor  there  are  three  houses  with  the  slates  on, 
and  two  more  are  just  goin'  to  get  them  done.  It's 
them  that  have  their  young  abroad  that  are  able 
to  do  it.  Now,  to  get  this  house  done  it  wouldn't 
take  so  much,1"  she  added;  "but  it  is  too  much  for 
me.  If  I  had  the  money.  .  .  ." 

Maura  The  Rosses  continued  scrubbing  the  floor, 
sweeping  a  flag  that  was  already  perfectly  clean. 
'After  a  moment  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at 
Norah. 

"Run  out,"  she  said  to  her,  "and  see  that  the 
cows  are  not  in  the  corn." 


Breed  Dermod  191 

"But  the  cows  were  up  on  the  top  of  the  hill  a 
minute  ago,"  said  Norah. 

"Run  out  and  do  what  ye're  told,"  said  the 
mother,  "and  take  the  basket  with  ye  and  dig  some 
pratees  for  the  supper.  Ye  go  with  her  and  gather 
them,  Kitty." 

The  two  went  out,  and  at  that  moment  Hughie 
Beag  put  his  head  through  the  door  and  fixed  two 
big  eyes  on  the  nail  over  the  fire.  On  this  nail 
the  birch  for  chastising  unruly  children  was  gen- 
erally hung.  Hughie  had  been  out  on  the  road 
rolling  in  the  dust  and  his  face,  legs,  arms  and 
dress  were  covered  with  dirt.  There  was  a  long 
rent  down  the  leg  of  the  knickers  which  his  mother 
had  bought  for  him  at  the  fair  a  few  days  previ- 
ously. When  his  mother  saw  this!  In  a  Glen- 
mornan  family  of  ten  the  birch  is  often  used,  and 
Doalty,  as  he  looked  at  Hughie  peeping  round  the 
door,  remembered  his  own  childhood  and  laughed. 

Maura  The  Rosses  looked  at  Hughie  Beag. 

"Run  out  and  play  yerself  till  tay-time!"  she 
shouted.  "And  don't  come  in  till  then !" 

Hughie  scuttled  back  to  the  road  again  and  the 
house  was  left  to  Maura  The  Rosses  and  her  son. 
This  was  what  the  woman  wanted. 
I  "Have  ye  any  money  to  spare,  Doalty?"  she 
asked  him,  and  continued  to  scrub  the  same  clean 
flag. 

"I  have  a  few  pounds  left,"  he  said. 

"Ye  wouldn't  miss  as  much  as  would  slate  the 
house,  I  suppose?"  she  enquired  timidly. 

"Wouldn't  I?"  said  Doalty.     "It's  far  nicer  to 


192  Glenmornan 

have  it  thatched  than  slated,"  he  went  on.  "It's 
warm  enough  here,  without  getting  slates  on  the 
roof.  Don't  you  think  so  yourself  ?" 

Maura  The  Rosses  did  not  think  so.  She 
wanted  the  house  slated,  not  so  much  because  it 
would  be  more  comfortable,  but  because  every- 
body in  Glenmornan  who  thought  anything  of 
themselves,  were  getting  done  with  the  thatching 
and  getting  the  slates  on.  And  she  did  not  want 
to  be  the  last  at  the  job,  not  now  especially,  as 
the  "woman  up  there"  was  getting  her  house  done. 

"But  I  haven't  practically  a  penny,  mother," 
Doalty  repeated.  But  the  woman  did  not  believe 
him,  as  he  could  see  by  the  smile  of  unbelief  that 
flickered  across  her  face.  He  had  money,  and  she 
knew  that  he  had.  Nothing  would  convince  her 
to  the  contrary. 

In  Glenmornan  children  are  looked  upon  as  good 
investments.  When  they  grow  up,  they  are  sup- 
posed to  give  all  the  money  they  earn  to  their  par- 
ents and  the  parents  take  it  as  their  due.  Maura 
The  Rosses  did  not  request  a  loan  from  her  son, 
she  simply  wanted  money  that  was  hers  by  right. 
It  is  only  when  the  young  marry  that  the  parents' 
claim  to  the  wages  ceases. 

Seeing  that  Doalty  would  not  fall  in  with  her 
wishes,  Maura  The  Rosses  began  temporising. 
She  had  a  little  laid  by,  only  a  few  pounds,  but, 
if  Doalty  would  give  her  some,  and  if  she  could 
get  two  young  heifers  (they  would  be  ready  for  the 
next  harvest  fair)  and  Crania  Coolin's  cow  (she 
hoped  it  would  calve  well)  off  her  hands,  she  might 


Breed  Dermod  193 

be  able  to  buy  the  slates.  There  were  also  two 
butts  of  butter,  almost  ready,  .  .  .  seven  geese, 
hanging  with  fat,  .  .  .  and  maybe  some  heather 
off  the  hill  could  be  sold  for  bedding,  .  .  .  and 
there  was  straw  that  would  be  good  for  the  thatch 
that  other  people  needed,  .  .  .  and  the  pratee  crop 
looked  promising,  and  down  the  glen,  where  the 
fields  suffered  from  the  floods,  the  people  would 
need  to  buy  pratees  at  the  heel  of  the  year,  .  .  . 
and  the  corn  was  heavy  of  ear,  .  .  .  and  there 
were  twenty-five  lambs  ready  come  the  next  mar- 
ket. Then  maybe  the  childer  away  in  America 
would  send  a  little  money  at  Christmas.  In  this 
manner  Maura  The  Rosses  strove  to  win  Doalty 
over  to  her  way  of  thinking,  and  all  the  time  Doal- 
ty's  thoughts  were  on  Sheila  Dermod,  who  was 
now  all  alone  in  her  house  on  the  brae.  That 
night  her  mother  would  be  late  in  returning  home, 
for  the  journey  to  Ardagh  was  a  long  step.  .  .  . 
Doalty  decided  that  he  would  go  up  and  see  Sheila 
when  darkness  fell.  .  .  . 

"And  now,  won't  ye  do  that  ?"  he  suddenly  heard 
his  mother  say. 

"All  right,"  he  replied.  "I'll  see  that  the  house 
gets  slated." 

"And  ye'll  pay  for  the  slatin',  will  ye?"  she 
asked. 

"I'll  pay  for  it,"  said  Doalty. 


194  Glenmornan 


in 


Oiney  Leahy  came  into  the  house  of  Maura  The 
Rosses  ten  minutes  later.  In  one  hand  he  carried 
a  strong  ash-plant,  in  the  other  a  bundle  of  ban- 
nocks wrapped  in  a  dotted  handkerchief. 

"Good  morra  t'ye,  Oiney,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses.  "Is  it  goin'  on  a  journey  that  ye  are?" 

"It  is,"  said  Oiney  Leahy,  placing  his  bundle 
on  the  floor  and  sitting  down  on  a  chair,  near  the 
fire. 

"Then  it's  a  good  day  that  ye're  havin'  for  the 
same,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  making  a  brave 
effort  to  restrain  her  curiosity.  She  wanted  to 
know  where  Oiney  was  bound  for,  but  Glenmornan 
is  very  loth  to  ask  anybody  about  their  business. 

Oiney  lit  his  little  clay  pipe;  white  and  clean  it 
was,  which  showed  that  it  had  just  been  dug  up 
from  the  field  behind  the  old  man's  house.  From 
Oiney's  expression  it  was  evident  that  he  was  in  a 
very  serious  mood,  and  though  relishing  his  smoke, 
he  was  doing  his  best  to  hide  his  enjoyment  of  a 
pleasant  pipe.  He  puffed  soberly  for  a  moment, 
as  if  above  such  a  performance,  and  then,  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  he  held  it  between  finger 
and  thumb  and  rubbed  the  stem  across  his  white 
beard.  Presently  he  spoke  in  a  voice  of  chastened 
humour. 

"It  is  indeed  a  good  day  for  a  journey,"  he  said, 
"and  a  willin'  foot  will  carry  a  man  far  on  a  day 


Breed  Dermod  195 

like  this,  please  God.  Even  old  Breed,  above  there, 
has  gone  out  the  day." 

"Where's  she  goin'  the  day?"  asked  Maura  The 
Rosses. 

"It's  the  slates  that  she's  gettin',"  said  Oiney. 
"Once  the  harvest  is  by  and  in,  she'll  be  gettin' 
them  over  her  head.  It'll  be  a  snug  home  that 
she'll  be  lavin'  behint  her,  for  her  girsha,  when 
she  goes." 

Maura  The  Rosses,  who  was  pouring  a  fistful 
of  tea  on  the  teapot  which  she  had  just  placed  on 
the  fire,  did  not  say  anything.  To  evince  curi- 
osity in  the  doings  of  Breed  Dermod  was  beneath 
her. 

"It'll  be  a  snug  home  for  the  girl  and  the  man 
that  has  the  luck  to  get  her,"  said  Oiney.  "And 
there's  some  that  would  go  far  and  not  find  as 
soncy  a  girl." 

Maura  The  Rosses  glanced  covertly  at  Doalty, 
then  back  at  the  teapot  again. 

"So  Breed  is  away  to  see  about  the  slates,"  said 
Oiney,  as  if  in  agreement  with  some  imaginary 
individual,  who  had  just  informed  him  of  this  fact. 
"And  it's  a  grand  day  to  be  shakin'  one's  legs  on 
the  roads.  For  meself  I  have  a  much  longer  jour- 
ney and  now  is  the  time  for  it,  seein'  that  I  have 
all  the  turf  stacked,  and  all  the  pratees  makin'  a 
good  show,  and  the  grass  gettin'  ready  for  the 
scythe  and  not  much  to  do  at  all  on  me  wee  bit  iv 
land,  bar  the  milkin'  iv  the  cow  and  the  puttin'  out 
iv  it  to  grass  in  the  mornin',  and  the  takin'  in  iv 
it  at  night,  and  the  feedin'  iv  the  dog  and  the  cat. 


196  Glenmornan 

I'll  be  distant  for  a  few  days,  so  I'm  gettin'  Sheila 
Dermod  to  milk  the  cow  one  mornin'  and  one  night, 
and  Eileen  Kelly  will  do  the  same  another  day  and 
yer  Norah,  if  ye'll  allow  it,  Maura  The  Rosses,  will 
do  the  same  on  the  third  day.  Then,  the  morra, 
Dennys  The  Drover  is  goin'  to  see  me  cow  and 
young  calf  to  the  hill,  and  he's  goin'  to  take  it  in 
at  night — a  job  that  he'll  not  fail  to  do,  seein'  that 
it's  Sheila  Dermod  that  will  milk  the  cow,  when  he 
takes  it  in/' 

A  grateful  look  showed  in  the  eyes  that  Maura 
The  Rosses  fixed  on  Oiney. 

"And  on  the  day  that  Eileen  Kelly  is  doin'  the 
milking  I  would  like  if  Doalty  would  be  as  good 
as  to  come  over  and  see  the  cow  in  and  out,"  said 
Oiney.  "Widye  do  that  now,  Doalty?" 

"I'll  be  delighted  to  do  it,"  said  Doalty. 

"And  on  the  third  day  yer  Norah  and  Owen 
'Briney  will  do  the  work  for  me,  Maura  The 
Rosses." 

"Iv  course  Norah  will  be  glad  to  help  ye  as  much 
as  she  can,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  as  she  lifted 
the  teapot  from  the  coals.  "Now  ye'll  have  a  wee 
drop  iv  the  tay  before  ye  go  out  on  yer  journey," 
she  said. 

"Not  this  tide,  thank  ye,"  said  Oiney  Leahy. 
"It's  to  Lough  Derg  that  I'm  goin'  and  I'm  takin' 
me  fast  with  me." 

"Indeed,  Oiney,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses. 

"It's  true,"  said  Oiney.  "A  person  must  once 
in  a  time  think  iv  God.  When  all's  said  and  done 
and  one  looks  back  on  one's  sins  it's  to  be  seen 


Breed  Dermod  197 

that  the  flesh  is  weak,  Maura  The  Rosses,  and 
there's  sin  in  the  marrow  iv  one's  bones.  ...  I 
must  repint  because  the  faith  says  it." 

"I  wish  that  ye  could  take  Doalty  widye  to  Lough 
Derg,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses.  "After  his  long 
years  in  foreign  parts  he  should  go  to  Lough  Derg 
and  get  free  from  all  his  sins." 

She  spoke  of  Doalty  as  if  the  young  man  were 
not  in  the  room. 

"I'd  be  only  too  glad  if  Doalty  would  make  the 
journey  with  me,"  said  Oiney.  "But  he's  a  good 
boy  and  not  as  much  in  sin  as  I  am." 

"So  you  don't  think  that  I  need  forgiveness, 
Oiney?"  said  Doalty.  "My  mother  and  that  old 
fool  Devaney  think  different." 

"It's  the  priest  he  means,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses  to  Oiney.  "I  don't  know  what's  comin' 
over  the  boy  at  all.  He  wasn't  like  this  when  he 
was  wee." 

"Ah!  but  he'll  come  round  to  see  things  in  the 
right  way  one  day,"  said  Oiney  hopefully.  "Not 
now,  maybe,  for  he's  young  yet.  But  he  has  his 
years  before  him." 

"It's  to  Lough  Derg  that  he  should  go,  for  he 
needs  it  more  than  yerself,  Oiney,"  said  Maura 
The  Rosses.  "I  keep  me  eyes  on  him  and  I  see 
things.  Since  he  came  home  here  he  hasn't  been 
in  at  the  Paidreen  *  one  night,  at  all.  It's  always 
outside  that  he  is,  and  lookin'  at  the  lights  comin' 
out  in  the  houses  along  the  glen.  He  likes  to  look 
at  them,  he  says.  And  he's  always  lookin'  at  the 

*  Rosary. 


198  Glenmornan 

stars  over  Carnaween  and  listenin'  to  the  winds 
blowin'  down  from  the  hills  and  he  says  that  he's 
very  near  to  God  when  he's  foolin'  about  like  that, 
the  poor  plaisham.  .  .  .  As  if  that  will  take  him 
to  heaven!  Father  Devaney  was  telling  me  that 
he  was  coming  up  to  see  Doalty  one  day,  and  I 
told  Doalty.  What  did  he  say  when  he  heard  this 
but,  'If  that  old  dog  comes  up  here  I'll  pitch  him 
into  the  duhal.' " 

"But  he  goes  to  Mass  every  Sunday,"  said 
Oiney. 

"He  does,  but  d'ye  know  what  he  said  the  other 
day,  Oiney  ?"  asked  Maura  The  Rosses,  still  speak- 
ing as  if  Doalty  were  not  present.  "He  said  that 
the  priest  was  a  funny  old  fellow.  Think  iv  that. 
Callin'  the  holy  priest  a  fellow!  I'm  afraid  that 
Doalty  is  a  Prodesan." 

•"No  fear,"  said  Oiney.  f'If  a  man's  born  to  the 
ould,  ancient  faith  he'll  never  lose  it.  It's  with  us, 
no  matter  what  we  do.  We  may  go  away  at  times, 
committin'  the  worst  iv  sins,  The  Deadly  Sins, 
there  are  seven  iv  them,  The  Sins  That  Cry  to 
God  For  Vengeance,  there  are  four  iv  them,  The 
Sins  Against  The  Holy  Ghost,  there  are  six  iv 
them,  and  we  may  commit  all  these,  and  more,  but 
in  the  end  we  come  back  again.  So  will  yerself  if 
ye  have  gone  away,  Doalty,  though  I  don't  think 
that  ye  have.  Ye'll  come  back  on  yer  dyin'  day 
if  not  before.  For  once  that  ye're  born  in  the 
faith,  it  is  always  yours.  It  may  be  like  a  silver 
coin  with  the  rust  all  over  it,  but  all  ye  have  to  do 
is  to  scrape  the  rust  off  and  there  ye  find  the  coin 


Breed  Dermod  199 

as  bright  and  white  and  shiny  as  ever.  .  .  .  Now 
when  I  go  over  to  Lough  Derg,  holdin'  to  me  fast, 
doin'  the  stations  barefut  and  goin'  to  me  duties, 
I'll  be  as  clean  in  my  soul  as  the  christened  baby. 
...  I  may  fall  again,  but  then,  God  is  always 
waitin'.  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  got  to  his  feet,  put  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  raised  his  bundle  and  went  out,  sideways 
through  the  door. 

"Good  luck  t'yer  journey,  Oiney  Leahy,"  Maura 
[The  Rosses  called  after  him. 

-Thank  ye  for  the  blessin',"  said  the  old  man 
and  full  of  faith  in  God,  much  the  more  vigor- 
ous because  never  disputed  or  analysed,  he  went, 
his  fast  with  him,  on  the  journey  to  Lough  Derg. 

"Does  he  often  go  there?"  Doalty  enquired  when 
the  footsteps  of  the  pilgrim  died  away. 

-'About  once  a  year,  good  man,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses,  fixing  a  look  of  stern  disapproval  on 
Doalty  and  speaking  of  Oiney  in  a  very  respect- 
ful voice.  From  her  tone,  it  was  evident  that  she 
considered  Oiney  had,  by  this  simple  act  of  piety, 
risen  far  above  the  mundane  world  of  Glenmor- 
nan.  "He  needs  to  go,  too,"  she  added.  "He  has 
been  about  all  the  turf -stacks  in  Stranameera  since 
last  Hall'  Eve,  for  he  hadn't  a  clod  saved  at  the 
end  iv  last  harvest.  He'll  be  all  right  the  year 
that's  comin',  for  he  has  all  his  bog  gathered  now. 
...  But  will  ye  go  to  Lough  Derg,  Doalty,  as  soon 
as  the  harvest  is  in  ?"  Maura  The  Rosses  enquired. 

"Well,  I'll  see,"  said  Doalty. 


200  Glenmornan 


IV 

That  nigkt  when  the  darkness  had  fallen,  Doalty 
Gallagher  went  up  to  Breed  Dermod's  house.  In 
front  of  the  house  lay  a  field,  with  the  grass  grow- 
ing up  to  the  very  door.  Sheila  did  not  hear  the 
young  man  coming,  and  when  he  went  in  he  found 
her  sitting  on  a  chair,  her  red  petticoat  tucked  up 
between  her  knees,  washing  her  feet  in  a  tin  dish, 
filled  with  spring  water.  She  sprang  up  when  he 
entered,  letting  her  dress  fall  down. 

"Oh !  ye've  give  me  a  fright !"  she  exclaimed,  with 
a  gasp,  shy  and  indignant,  fixing  her  eyes  on 
Doalty.  "I  didn't  hear  ye  comin'  at  all.  Oh !  I'm 
broke!" 

"Fve  come  up  because  I  want  to  see  you,"  said 
Doalty,  looking  at  the  girl.  The  lamp  was  not  lit, 
but  a  dull  fire  showed  on  the  hearth. 

"Ye  want  to  see  me  again!"  said  the  girl,  her 
lips  twitching.  "Why  are  ye  always  wantin'  to 
see  me?" 

"You  know  quite  well  why  I  want  to  see  you, 
Sheila,"  said  the  young  man.  "I  love  you,  Sheila. 
You  don't  think.  .  .  ." 

"But  ye're  always  tellin'  me  that,"  said  the  girl. 

"But  you  believe  me,  don't  you?"  asked  Doalty, 
and  he  reached  out  and  clasped  the  girl's  hand.  He 
pulled  the  young  girlish  body  towards  him  and 
pressed  it  with  a  mad  passion.  Sheila  shrank  back, 
frightened. 

"Lave  go  iv  me,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  she  said. 


Breed  Dermod  201 

'"Anybody  may  come  in  now  and   ye  doin'   this." 

"Let  them  come  in  if  they  like,"  said  Doalty 
recklessly,  and  bending  down,  he  tried  to  kiss  the 
fresh  warm  lips  of  Sheila.  But  he  was  unsuccess- 
ful. The  girl  bowed  her  head  and  he  rested  his 
lips  on  her  hair. 

"Look  up  at  me,"  he  whispered  in  a  hoarse  voice. 
"Look  up  at  me,  Sheila." 

"Whisht!"  said  the  girl  in  a  whisper,  pressing 
her  face  against  Doalty's  chest  and  raising  her 
hand  in  an  attitude  of  listening.  "There's  some 
one  comin'.  And  I  haven't  got  my  boots  on." 

She  pulled  herself  away  with  a  violent  move- 
ment, and  rushing  to  a  bed  which  stood  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  kitchen,  she  groped  under  it  and  brought 
out  a  pair  of  boots  and  stockings.  At  that  mo- 
ment Eileen  Kelly  entered  the  house,  and  seeing 
Doalty  Gallagher,  she  came  to  a  dead  stop  and 
looked  at  him. 

"Is  it  ye  that's  here,  Doalty  Gallagher?"  she  en- 
quired, stretching  out  her  hand  to  the  young  man. 
"Ye're  one  iv  the  first  in." 

She  pressed  his  hand  firmly,  relaxed  her  grip 
for  a  moment,  then  squeezed  his  hand  again,  as  if 
complimenting  him  on  some  success  which,  in  her 
eyes,  he  had  achieved.  Doalty,  agitated  and  con- 
fused, stared  blankly  at  Eileen,  but  did  not  speak. 
How  he  disliked  her!  Why  had  she  not  stopped 
at  home? 

"Where  are  ye,  Sheila?"  Eileen  called,  peering 
round  the  room,  looking  for  her  friend.  "Ah!" 
she  exclaimed,  noticing  Sheila  sitting  by  the  bed, 


202  Glenmornan 

pulling  her  stockings  on;  "I  see  ye.  Ye're  late 
gettin'  ready.  What  has  been  keepin'  ye?  .  .  . 
But  it  would  be  better  to  ask  Doalty  Gallagher 
that,  I  suppose.  What  tricks  have  ye  been  at, 
Doalty  ?"  she  enquired,  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  young 
man. 

"Nothing,"  Doalty  stammered.  "I  have  only 
come  in  just  now." 

"Light  the  lamp  for  me,  Eileen,"  Sheila  called 
from  the  corner. 

Eileen  lit  the  oil-lamp  that  hung  by  a  nail  from 
the  brace.  Doalty  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  the 
table.  Sheila,  her  boots  on,  stirred  up  the  fire  and 
put  a  kettle  of  water  on  the  crook.  Eileen  Kelly 
brought  out  a  stocking  from  under  her  shawl,  sat 
on  a  hassog  by  the  fire  and  commenced  knitting. 

"It's  a  wonder  that  none  iv  the  others  are  in 
yet,"  she  said,  looking  at  Sheila.  "I  saw  Micky 
Neddy  and  Dennys  The  Drover  down  be  the  road 
talkin*  to  one  another,  just  when  I  left  the  house." 

"They're  coming  up  of  course?"  Doalty  en- 
quired, dreading  the  answer  to  his  question  and  at 
the  same  time  trying  to  appear  indifferent. 

"Iv  course  they're  comin',"  said  Eileen  Kelly. 
•"It's  not  often  that  Sheila  has  the  house  to  her- 
self." 

"Then  I  suppose  I'd  better  go,"  said  Doalty  care- 
lessly, addressing  the  remark  intended  for  Sheila 
Dermod's  ears,  to  Eileen  Kelly. 

"What  widye  be  wantin'  to  go  'way  for,  now?" 
asked  Eileen.  'The  first  time  that  ye've  come  here 
and  wantin'  to  go  'way  just  as  if  ye  didn't  be- 


Breed  Dermod  203 

long  to  the  same  glen  as  ourselves.  Isn't  he  a  silly 
card,  Sheila?" 

"He  is  ...  very  silly,"  said  Sheila  emphat- 
ically. But  she  was  not  referring  to  Doalty's  re- 
mark apparently,  but  to  an  event  which  had  taken 
place  some  minutes  before.  For  a  while  after 
speaking,  she  kept  looking  at  the  fire  and  the  red 
tongues  of  flame  shooting  up  against  the  soot. 

At  that  moment  Dennys  The  Drover,  accom- 
panied by  Mickjy  Neddy,  the  red-haired  youngster 
with  the  fern-tickled  face  and  buck  teeth,  entered. 


"So  ye're  all  here,"  said  Dennys,  fixing  his  gaze 
on  the  two  girls.  Then  he  looked  at  Doalty  and 
a  gleam  of  irony  seemed  to  show  for  a  moment  in 
his  eyes. 

"So  ye,  yerself's  here,  Doalty,"  he  said,  with  a 
laugh,  as  he  sat  down.     "That's  the  way.    When 
the  hawk's  in  its  nest  the  chickens  can  play  tig." 
,     "They  can,"  said  Doalty,  who  was  lighting  a 
cigarette.     He  handed  the  packet  round. 
1     Eileen  Kelly  took  a  cigarette,  but  when  Sheila 
reached  out  her  hand  to  the  packet,  Drover  Den- 
nys gripped  hold  of  her  wrist. 
;     "Ye're  not  goin'  to  have  one  at  all,  till  ye  put 
the  taypot  on  the  fire  for  the  tay,"  he  said.    "Peo- 
ple comin'  here  to  see  ye  and  not  gettin'  a  drop  iv 
tay  to  drink!" 


204  Glenmornan 

Still  holding  Sheila  by  the  arm,  Dennys  got  to 
his  feet  and  led  her  towards  the  dresser. 

"There's  what  ye  want,"  he  said,  pointing  at 
the  delft  teapot,  "and  the  sugar  is  in  the  press  and 
the  tay  is  in  a  box  somewhere.  Ye  get  a  move  on 
ye,  Sheila,  and  give  us  something  to  drink." 

Then  I'm  goin'  to  get  a  cigarette  to  smoke, 
amn't  I  ?"  asked  the  girl,  with  a  laugh,  as  she  tried 
to  box  Dennys'  ears. 

"Ye'll  get  one  to  smoke  then,"  said  Drover  Den- 
nys, coming  back  to  his  chair. 

'There's  no  standin'  ye,  Drover  Dennys,"  said 
Eileen  Kelly.  "Ye  come  in  to  a  house,  and  ye 
gad  about  the  same  as  if  ye  were  under  yer  own 
roof." 

"Now,  will  ye  be  quiet,  Eileen,"  said  Drover  Den- 
nys. "If  ye're  not  I'll  pull  yer  needles  out." 

"It'll  need  something  better  than  yerself  to  spoil 
me  knittin',"  said  Eileen  Kelly,  with  a  laugh,  hold- 
ing out  her  stocking  and  threatening  him  with  it. 

She  held  it  close  enough  for  him  to  grip  a  needle, 
which  he  pulled  out. 

"Give  me  back  me  needle,"  she  said,  giggling. 
For  answer  Dennys  pulled  another  needle  from 
her  work. 

"Well,  that's  too  much,"  said  the  girl,  making 
a  face  at  the  youth.  "I  don't  like  ye  at  all,  Den- 
nys The  Drover.  Ye  should  have  more  sense,  and 
respect  yerself,  just  like  Doalty  Gallagher  or 
Micky  Neddy." 

Dennys  got  to  his  feet,  lifted  Eileen  Kelly  from 
her  hassock  and  sat  down  on  it  with  the  girl  on  his 


Breed  Dermod  205 

knees.  She  struggled  a  little,  as  if  to  free  herself, 
from  his  grip,  but  to  Doalty  it  was  evident  that  she 
did  not  want  to  get  away. 

"Don't  be  holdin'  me  so  tight  now,"  said  Eileen. 
"I  can't  move  with  yer  big  arms  about  me.  Let 
me  be,  ye  thick  mountainy  crathur !" 

Dennys,  however,  pressed  her  tighter  the  more 
she  struggled  and  now  and  again  for  a  change  he 
rubbed  his  chin  against  hers,  "Just  to  give  ye  a 
bit  iv  beardy,"  he  remarked. 

All  this  time  Sheila  Dermod  was  preparing  the 
tea  by  the  fire,  her  face  flushed  a  little  as  she  bent 
over  the  red  turf.  Doalty  Gallagher  was  steal- 
ing fugitive  glances  at  her.  Now  and  again,  when 
she  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his,  she  bit  her  lips  as 
if  annoyed  at  the  young  man's  persistent  scrutiny. 

"Don't  be  doin'  this  to  me,"  Eileen  Kelly  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  pretending  to  free  herself  from 
Dennys'  embrace,  while  trying  to  sink  deeper  into 
it.  "Do  this  to  Sheila  Dermod  and  not  to  me. 
Ye're  afeerd  iv  her,  I'm  thinkin'." 

In  this  way  the  girl  was  trying  to  find  what 
depth  of  feeling  existed  between  The  Drover  and 
her  friend.  This  Doalty  Gallagher  would  also 
like  to  find  out.  He  looked  at  Sheila. 

"Afraid  iv  her,  the  wee  cutty!"  said  Dennys. 
"Am  I  afeerd  iv  ye,  Sheila?" 

"Ah!  ye're  always  blatherin',  Dennys  The  Dro- 
ver," said  the  girl,  blowing  the  ashes  from  the  tea- 
pot, and  placing  it  on  the  table. 

"Ye'll  know  somethin'  different  the  morra, 
then,"  said  Dennys  The  Drover.  "Wait  till  I  get 


206  Glenmornan 

hold  iv  ye  milkin'  Oiney  Leahy's  cow.  Then  I'll 
be  tellin'  ye  somethin'  that  ye'll  never  speak  about 
at  confession." 

"If  ye  be  carry  in'  on  with  tricks  like  that,  Den- 
nys  The  Drover,  I'll  run  away  and  lave  ye  be  yer- 
self,"  said  Sheila.  "If  ye  say  things  ye'd  be  afraid 
to  tell  at  confession  it  doesn't  mane  that  I'll  give 
ear  to  them." 

"I  don't  know  why  the  hell  we've  to  tell  every- 
thing at  confession,"  said  Micky  Neddy,  spitting 
on  the  floor.  He  had  been  chewing  and  spitting 
ever  since  he  came  in.  "I  don't  believe  in  it. 
There's  old  Father  Devaney  and  he  has  built  that 
big  house  iv  his  at  hundreds  iv  pounds.  He  said 
when  he  started  it  that  it  would  be  made  for  him- 
self and  the  curates,  but  now,  that  it's  built,  there's 
nobody  livin'  there  bar  himself  and  his  old  sister. 
He  won't  let  a  curate  get  in  there,  for  he's  such  a 
crusty  old  divil.  And  he'll  go  to  the  dances  down 
the  town  and  sit  there  till  mornin'  with  the  Quig- 
leys  and  the  others  iv  that  kind,  but  if  it  comes  to 
a  dance  up  this  way,  he  says  that  it's  a  sin.  I 
wouldn't  make  me  confession  to  such  an  old  ras- 
cal." Micky  spat  on  the  floor.  "I  don't  often  go, 
but  when  I  do  it's  never  to  him.  It's  one  God  for 
the  people  iv  the  town  and  another  God  for  the 
people  iv  the  glen,  be  the  way  that  he  looks  at  it. 
It's  all  humbug,  I'm  thinkin'.  What  d'ye  think, 
Doalty  Gallagher?" 

I  "I  think  that  you're  quite  right,"  said  Doalty, 
who  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  Sheila  Dermod. 

"And  so  do  I,"  said  Eileen  Kelly.     "I  suppose 


Breed  Dermod  207 

he  thinks  that  all  the  people  up  the  glen  are  fools." 

"Eileen  Kelly!"  said  Sheila  Dermod  reprov- 
ingly. 

"So  he  does,"  said  Eileen.  "Micky  Neddy  is 
right  about  it." 

"I  didn't  think  that  ye'd  say  that,  Eileen  Kelly," 
said  Sheila,  placing  a  large  cake  of  homemade  bread 
on  the  table.  "It's  not  like  ye  to  talk  in  that  way 
about  God  and  the  holy  priests." 

At  that  moment  Doalty  saw  something  move 
outside  the  window.  A  cap  rose  up  from  the  dark- 
ness and  pressed  against  the  lower  pane,  then  a 
pair  of  eyes  followed.  These  stared  in  for  a  sec- 
ond and  disappeared.  Eileen  Kelly  saw  it  also. 
She  got  to  her  feet  and  pulled  the  blind  down  on 
the  window. 

"Somebody  was  lookin'  in,"  she  said.  "It  was 
Owen  Briney,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"He's  always  nosin'  about  here,"  said  Sheila. 

"What  will  he  be  lookin'  after?"  asked  Micky 
Neddy. 

"He's  wantin'  to  see  what  people's  doin',  I 
think,"  said  Sheila  Dermod.  "But  come,  yees 
now,  and  sit  down  and  ate  somethin'." 

The  party  sat  down  to  the  meal.  They  had  a 
lot  to  talk  about,  the  harvest  that  was  coming,  the 
slating  of  the  glen  houses  and  the  fun  of  the  hills, 
when  Micky  Neddy,  Dennys  The  Drover  and  Oiney 
Leahy  went  out  to  make  potheen.  These  three  had 
several  fights  with  the  police,  and  by  their  talk 
Doalty  inferred  that  the  three  men  were  equal  to 
a  dozen  policemen  when  it  came  to  a  hand-to-hand 


2o8  Glenmornan 

combat.  Oiney  Leahy  always  went  out  in  the 
bare  feet  over  the  rocks  and  was  never  as  happy  as 
when  he  had  a  ruction  with  the  police. 

When  the  meal  came  to  an  end  Sheila  hurried 
the  boys  away. 

"I  don't  want  me  mother  to  see  ye  here/'  she 
said.  "She  may  be  in  at  any  minit  now,  and  if  the 
house  is  full  iv  yees  what  am  I  to  say?" 

"All  right,  we'll  get  out,"  said  Dennys  The  Dro- 
ver. "But  mind  the  morra  and  don't  be  late 
comin'  over  to  Oiney  Leahy's." 

"I'll  be  there  as  soon  as  yerself,  I'm  sure,"  said 
Sheila  Dermod. 


VI 


The  three  men  went  out  and  made  for  their 
homes.  It  was  only  a  step  down  the  brae  to  Maura 
The  Rosses  and  when  Doalty  got  there,  he  stood 
outside  the  window  for  a  moment  and  peeped  in. 
He  could  see  his  mother  on  her  knees  by  the  fire, 
giving  out  the  Rosary,  the  children  making  the  re- 
sponses. Hughie  Beag,  already  in  bed,  with  his 
two  bright  eyes  peeping  out  from  beneath  the  blan- 
kets, was  waiting  for  his  mother  to  tell  him  the 
story  of  the  bat  and  the  cat  and  the  wee  red  hen. 
Instead  of  going  inside  Doalty  turned  back  and 
went  up  the  hill  again,  towards  Breed  Dermod's 
house. 

The  road  ran  through  the  clump  of  hazel  bushes, 
in  which  he  first  met  Sheila  after  his  return  from 
abroad.  It  was  here  he  met  her  now.  She  was 


Breed  Dermod  209 

siailSing  there,  with  Eileen  Kelly,  and  the  two  girls 
were  apparently  listening  to  hear  if  Breed  Der- 
mod was  coming  back  from  the  village  of  Ardagh. 

"Oh!  it's  ye  that's  in  it!"  said  Eileen  Kelly,  when 
Doalty  stumbled  across  the  two  girls.  By  her  tone 
of  voice  it  was  evident  that  she  was  expecting 
somebody  else;  not  Doalty,  and  presumably  not 
Breed  Dermod.  "Are  ye  not  goin'  to  bed  at  all  the 
night,  Doalty  Gallagher?"  Eileen  enquired. 

"It's  far  too  early  to  go  to  bed  yet,"  said  Doalty. 
'"If  I  go  to  bed  now,  I  can't  sleep." 

"That's  a  sign  that  there's  something  on  yer 
mind,  if  ye  can't  sleep,"  said  Eileen. 

"Maybe  there  is,"  Doalty  replied. 

"D'ye  hear  that?"  said  Eileen  Kelly,  turning 
round  to  speak  to  her  friend.  But  Sheila  had 
stolen  away  and  was  already  back  in  her  house. 

"Well,  that's  a  funny  thing,  isn't  it  ?"  Eileen  ap- 
pealed to  Doalty.  "Goin'  away  without  a  word 
and  leavin'  me  here  me  lone." 

"But  you  are  not  quite  alone,"  said  Doalty  with 
a  laugh.  "Do  you  consider  yourself  alone  when 
you  are  here  with  me?" 

"Well,  Sheila's  not  with  me,"  said  Eileen. 

"But  still  you're  not  alone,"  Doalty  persisted, 
looking  closely  into  Eileen's  face.  He  had  never 
been  so  close  to  Eileen  before,  and  had  never  real- 
ised what  a  charming  girl  she  looked.  "You're  as 
safe  here,"  he  said,  "just  as  safe  as  if  you  were 
along  with  Sheila  Dermod." 

"But  yer  self  would  much  rather  that  it  was 


210  Glenmornan 

Sheila  that  was  here  instead  iv  me,"  said  Eileen, 
coming  closer  to  Doalty. 

"What  causes  you  to  think  that?"  he  asked. 

^Me  own  two  eyes  are  not  blind,"  said  the  girl. 
-Who  were  ye  lookin'  at  all  this  night?" 

"Nobody  in  particular,"  Doalty  replied,  care- 
less whether  she  believed  him  or  not. 

"But  how  was  it  that  ye  were  up  here  before 
any  one,  when  ye  found  that  Breed  went  away  to 
Ardagh?" 

f'I  did  not  know  Breed  had  gone  to  Ardagh," 
said  Doalty.  "If  I  had  known  that  Breed  went,  I 
wouldn't  have  come  up  here,"  he  lied.  "I  would 
have  gone  down  and  seen  yourself  instead." 

"I  suppose  ye 've  been  wild  after  the  girls  away 
there?"  enquired  Eileen,  with  frank  curiosity. 

This  question  produced  a  singular  effect  on 
Doalty.  A  cloud  seemed  to  rise  round  him,  hid- 
ing the  present  and  choking  its  desires,  blotting 
out  the  future  and  its  hopes.  Sheila,  for  the  mo- 
ment, was  forgotten,  even  the  girl,  standing  by  his 
side,  was  not  in  his  world.  Shadowgraph  pictures 
of  the  past  swept  across  the  tablet  of  his  mind  with 
astounding  speed.  Lady  Ronan,  George  Ronan, 
the  deferential  butler,  the  editor,  all  swept  across 
his  mental  vision  like  figures  born  in  the  vapour 
of  his  mind.  Suddenly  the  racing  pictures  stopped 
dead,  as  if  a  brake  had  been  applied,  and  one  stood 
out  clearly,  the  picture  of  Myra  Ronan  in  an  Eng- 
lish bedroom.  The  girl  had  been  terrified  by  a 
footstep  in  the  passage  outside.  .  .  .  She  clutched 
Doalty's  sleeve.  .  .  .  He  bent  down,  put  his  arms 


Breed  Dermod  211 

round  her;  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Eileen 
Kelly.  .  .  . 

"Ye  are  all  the  same,  every  one  iv  ye,"  Eileen 
said,  pressing  Doalty  away  from  her.  "I  suppose 
ye  would  say  the  same  things  to  me  that  ye  would 
say  to  Sheila,  if  ye  had  the  chance.  ...  I  know 
it.  There's  no  difference  in  any  iv  yees  boys." 

She  stepped  slowly  back,  then  turned  round  and 
ran  into  the  house.  Once  there,  she  closed  the 
:door  behind  her. 

"What  a  fool  I'm  making  of  myself!"  said 
Doalty,  turning  hurriedly  away  and  making  his 
way  down  the  brae  again.  "And  the  two  girls 
are  such  strange  creatures.  .  .  .  Am  I  in  love  with 
one  of  them,  both  of  them,  or  neither  of  them.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know.  .  .  .  But  if  Eileen  had  not  run  away 

I'd  have Does  Sheila  care  for  me?  ... 

Eileen,  I  know,  does  not,  but  she  is  in  love  with 
Dennys  The  Drover  and  Dennys  is  not  in  love  with 
her.  But  is  Dennys  in  love  with  Sheila?  ...  Is 
Sheila  in  love  with  him?  There  is  very  little  love 
in  Glenmornan.  Marriages  are  affairs  of  conven- 
ience. .  .  .  Love  has  no  romance  here.  .  .  .  Peo- 
ple get  mated.  .  .  .  Six  cows'  grass  marries  six 
cows'  grass.  ...  If  I  married  Sheila  Dermod  my 
mother  would  be  annoyed.  .  .  .  The  lowest  of  the 
low.  .  .  .  But  I  am  in  love  with  Sheila,  madly  in 
love  with  her." 

Doalty  met  Breed  Dermod  coming  up  the  hill. 
She  was  barefooted,  having  taken  off  her  boots, 
no  doubt,  because  they  hurt  her  feet.  Or  maybe 
she  thought  that  the  roads  wore  them  out  too 


212  Glenmornan 

quickly.  Breed  did  not  speak  to  him,  but  when  fie 
went  past  she  stood  for  a  long  time,  following  him 
with  her  eyes.  When  she  got  into  her  home  she 
looked  at  the  bowl  of  sugar,  the  cake  of  bread  and 
the  box  of  tea. 

"I'll  be  in  no  hurry  leavin'  the  house  under  yer 
care  again,"  she  said  to  Sheila.  "When  ye  get  me 
out,  ye  have  nothin'  better  to  do  than  to  feed  the 
whole  townland.  Ye've  a  ready  hand  at  givin'  the 
bread  away.  One  would  think  that  all  ye  had  to 
do  was  to  go  out  and  pull  it  from  the  ground  like 
bockins*  .  .  .  but  wait  till  the  morrow!"  said 
Breed  Dermod  harshly.  "I'll  go  down  to  Maura 
The  Rosses  and  tell  her  what  I  think  iv  her  son,  the 
dirty  Prodesan  turncoat!" 

*  Bockin — a  mushroom. 


CHAPTER 


THE  MOWING 

A  young  man  has  ways  with  him  of  always  letting  on ; 
His  feet  they're  supple  at  a  dance  but  slow  to  shake  at 

dawn. 
.You'd  think  he  owned  the  whole  townland,  he  is  so  full 

of  airs, 

And  showing  off  he  always  is  at  dances  and  at  fairs; 
My  man  to  be  must  be  like  that,  a  strapping  boy  and 

tall, 

Or  'tisn't  me  to  sleep  with  him  at  either  stock  or  wall. 

— A  Kattyee  Song. 


ALTHOUGH  he  promised  his  mother  that 
he  would  pay  for  the  slating  of  the  house, 
Doalty  Gallagher  had  practically  no  money. 
When  he  left  London  he  had  some  thirty  pounds  in 
his  pocket,  but  he  found,  on  arriving  home,  that 
Glenmornan  sucked  up  money  as  a  sponge  soaks 
up  water.     One  day  Hughie  Beag  wanted  a  new 
coat,  the  next  day  Norah  needed  a  new  pair  of 
boots,  and  again,  Kitty  being  all  in  rags,  could  not 
go  into  the  convent  school,  where  all  the  quality 
ones  were,  until  she  got  a  new  dress.    When  they 
informed  Maura  The  Rosses  of  their  needs  the  old 
woman's  answer  was  invariably  the  same.    ''Tell 
213 


214  Glenmornan 

Doalty  about  it,"  she  would  say.  "He  has  money 
and  to  spare,  and  he'll  not  miss  the  wee  penny  that 
ye're  wantin'." 

Doalty  gave  the  money  while  he  possessed  it, 
but  now  he  had  almost  come  to  his  last  penny. 
Something  had  to  be  done,  and  being  a  journalist, 
Doalty's  thoughts  turned  to  his  newspaper.  George 
Ronan  had  advised  him  to  send  some  "stories," 
and  Doalty  found  that  he  had  any  amount  of  ma- 
terial to  hand.x  Half  a  dozen  good  stories  dealing 
with  Glenmornan  would  be  certain  to  sell,  then 
these  could  be  followed  by  others.  .  .  .  He  took  a 
table  and  a  chair,  a  pen,  ink,  and  a  dozen  sheets  of 
paper  out  to  the  field  in  front  of  the  house  and  sat 
down  and  wrote. 

It  was  an  easy  enough  job,  jotting  down  impres- 
sion after  impression,  incident  after  incident,  por- 
traying habits,  customs  and  humours  of  the  Glen- 
mornan people.  Oiney  Leahy  under  another  name, 
was  described  in  detail;  the  fair  of  Greenanore 
formed  a  topic,  but  the  girl,  Sheila  Dermod,  was 
not  spoken  about.  But  even  when  writing  Doal- 
ty's mind  was  seldom  far  removed  from  Sheila 
and  his  eyes  followed  her  as  she  went  over  to 
Oiney  Leahy's  to  keep  house  for  the  man  who  was 
away  on  the  pilgrimage  to  Lough  Derg. 

Doalty  stopped  his  work  to  watch  the  girl  cross- 
ing the  braes.  Then  when  she  entered  Oiney's 
house,  he  lay  back  on  his  chair,  lit  a  cigarette  and 
thought  of  many  things.  A  sort  of  inward  calm 


The  Mowing  215 

had  come  to  him  and  he  did  not  want  to  work  too 
hard;  neither  did  he  wish  to  talk  to  anybody.  All 
that  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  muse  peacefully,  sur- 
rounded by  the  unbroken  peace  of  Glenmornan, 
and  with  which  his  own  mood  was  in  perfect  ac- 
cord. 

He  could  see  the  river  leaping  over  the  ford  be- 
neath him,  its  spray  rising  as  if  to  catch  the  glit- 
ter and  sheen  of  the  hot  sun.  Memories  of  his 
youth  came  over  him,  and  with  these  memories 
came  a  certain  sadness.  But  why  he  was  sad  he 
did  not  pause  to  analyse.  All  that  he  wanted  to 
do  was  to  laze  and  let  his  thoughts  run  whither 
they  wist. 

"Hang  it  all!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  getting 
to  his  feet.  "I'm  not  going  to  write  another  line. 
To-morrow  will  do.  I'm  feeling  tired,  happily 
tired,  just  the  same  as  if  I  had  done  a  long  day's 
work.  But  I  have  done  nothing.  I  wonder  why 
these  people  can  sustain  their  energy  in  such  an 
enervating  climate." 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  across  at  Meenawara- 
jvor,  where  the  natives  of  that  townland  were  out 
on  the  hills,  stacking  peat  for  the  winter's  fire. 
Seen  from  where  he  stood  the  workers  looked  mere 
pigmies  moving  very  slowly  over  the  broken  moor. 
J5ut  they  were  in  reality  working  hard,  sweating  as 
they  toiled.  Little  fires  burned  on  the  spread- 
field.  The  white  smoke  curled  up  into  the  heav- 
ens. There  was  peace  there,  but  the  peace  was 
such  a  lazy  one.  Nothing  seemed  to  be  getting 
done.  To-morrow  and  to-morrow  the  same  labour 


216  Glenmornan 

would  be  performed,  the  same  energy  would  be 
expended,  and  for  all  the  strain  and  stress  of  their 
toil,  the  people  would  be  as  poor  at  the  end  of  the 
year  as  at  the  beginning.  But  they  were  happy 
enough.  Petty  cares  and  worries  filled  their  day, 
and  their  years,  and  their  lives.  .  .  .  But  are  not 
all  cares  petty?  Is  not  Life  itself,  for  Glenmornan 
and  for  the  world  at  large,  a  poor  and  petty  busi- 
ness? 

"Good  day  t'ye,  Doalty  Gallagher." 

The  young  man  turned  round  with  a  start  to 
find  Breed  Dermod  behind  him. 

"Good  day,  Breed,"  said  Doalty,  and  he  won- 
dered whether  he  should  hold  out  his  hand  to  the 
woman  or  not.  But  the  threatening  look  in  her 
sunken  eyes,  and  the  hard  line  of  her  tightly  closed 
and  sunken  lips  forbade  such  familiarity.  Breed 
Dermod  looked  as  if  she  were  angry  with  Doalty. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  without  speaking  another 
word,  one  hand  hidden  in  her  shawl  and  the  other 
— how  big  and  red  it  looked — hanging  down  by 
her  side,  against  her  bauna  brockagh  petticoat. 

"So  yeVe  nothin'  to  say  for  yerself,  Doalty  Gal- 
lagher," said  the  woman,  glowering  at  the  young 
man. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  Doalty  stammered. 

"Nothin'  at  all!"  repeated  the  woman,  catching 
up  the  words  as  they  fell  from  the  young  man's 
lips.  "Nothin*  at  all  is  it  that  ye  have  to  say,  and 
ye  runnin'  round  about  our  house  up  there  all  night, 
last  night  The  boys  about  the  roads,  here  now, 
are  bad  enough,  but  when  it  comes  to  them  that 


The  Mowing  217 

comes  home  from  abroad,  they  should  know  bet- 
ter than  run  about  the  way  that  yerself  was  doin' 
last  night.  I  went  out  and  left  Sheila  to  mind 
the  house  and  then  I  comes  back  and  find  ye  corn- 
in'  down  the  braes,  and  when  I  goes  into  the  house 
what  do  I  find?  The  place  has  been  scringed  from 
top  to  bottom  and  everything  ate.  To  think  that 
Maura  The  Rosses  hasn't  enough  money  laid  by 
to  fill  yer  hungry  gut  when  ye  come  back!  .  .  ." 
She  raised  her  voice  so  that  Maura  The  Rosses 
.would  hear  her. 

"Greed  Dermod,"  said  Doalty,  in  as  calm  a  voice 
as  he  could  muster,  though  he  felt  confused  and 
foolish.  "I  don't  know  what  you  are  speaking 
about." 

"Don't  know  what  I'm  speakin'  about !"  shrieked 
the  woman,  glaring  at  him.  "Don't  know  what 
I'm  speakin'  about,  Oily  Tongue!  Talkin'  there 
the  same  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  yer  mouth  I 
Ye're  a  greedy  gut,  and  if  yer  mother  was  the 
woman  she  sets  herself  to  be,  she  wouldn't  own  up 
to  a  son  like  yerself,  Doalty  Gallagher." 

"I  wish  ye  wouldn't  come  down  here  with  yer 
tongue-bangin',"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  coming1 
into  the  field  and  standing  in  front  of  Breed  Der- 
mod. "If  Doalty  went  up  to  yer  house  it  wasn't 
my  wish.  If  I  had  me  way  with  him  he'd  keep 
put  iv  arm's  reach  iv  you  and  yours." 

Breed  Dermod  folded  her  arms  across  her 
breast,  let  her  shawl  drop  back  from  her  shoulders, 
and  scanned  Maura  The  Rosses  deliberately. 

"Ye  must  be  proud  iv  yer  family,  Maura  The 


218  Glenmornan 

Rosses,"  she  said,  in  a  calm  voice,  which  the  pallor 
of  her  cheeks  and  the  agitation  of  her  shoulders 
utterly  belied.  "Ye've  been  often  talkin'  about 
them  and  the  way  they  get  on  so  well  when  they 
go  abroad.  Iv  course  nobody  knows  what  they 
do  when  they  are  away,  but  we  can  see  the  kind  iv 
beauties  they  are  when  they  come  back  again. 
They're  a  scandal  to  the  townland  and  the  glen, 
and  it's  down  to  the  priest  that  I'll  go  the  morrow 
and  see  what  he  can  do  to  get  this  gulpin  from 
comin'  round  about  our  house  up  there.  I'll  see 
about  it  ...  I'll  see,  Maura  The  Rosses." 

Now  that  the  two  women  were  face  to  face, 
Breed  Dermod  seemed  to  take  a  greater  delight  in 
giving  expression  to  her  wrath.  All  the  people  of 
the  glen,  within  ear-shot,  were  out  listening. 

"I'll  see  the  priest  about  this,"  said  Breed  Der- 
mod. "I'll  get  that  fine  boy  iv  yours,  Maura  The 
Rosses,  read  from  the  altar.  Runnin'  about  me 
house  when  I'm  out  iv  it.  ...  Scringin'  all  over 
the  place  and  makin*  a  huddle  iv  everything.  .  .  . 
The  boys  about  the  road  are  wild  enough  at  times, 
but  they're  not  like  him.  He  thinks  that  he  can 
do  what  he  likes  when  he  comes  back  from  across 
the  water.  .  .  .  Thinks  that  we're  all  fools  here. 
And  the  priest  knows  what  he's  like,  for  I've  heard 
him  meself,  say  that  Doalty  is  a  disgrace  to  the 
parish  and  to  the  country." 

"All  the  glen's  out  listenin5  t'  ye,  Breed  Der- 
mod," said  Maura  The  Rosses,  who  was  in  reality 
a  very  quiet  woman  and  preferred  nursing  a  hate 


The  Mowing  219 

in  secret,  to  airing  it  within  hearing  of  her  neigh- 
bours. 

"Listenin'  to  me!  And  as  if  I  cared  the  turn 
iv  a  straw  whether  they  are  or  not,"  said  Breed 
Dermod,  shouting  at  the  topmost  pitch  of  her 
voice.  "There's  nothin'  that  I  am  afraid  iv. 
There's  nothin'  in  me  or  mine  that  needs  to  be 
hid.  .  .  .  But  it's  not  in  yerself  to  say  the  same, 
Maura  The  Rosses,  ye  that's  the  mother  iv  a 
Prodesan  turncoat!" 

"All  right,  say  what  ye  like,"  Doalty's  mother 
replied.  "I'm  goin'  into  me  home  and  ye  can  keep 
speakin'  on  here  as  long  as  ye  like." 

So  saying,  Maura  The  Rosses  went  into  her 
home  and  Doalty  followed  her.  Breed  Dermod 
kept  up  her  harangue  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour. 
Three  generations  of  the  Gallaghers,  dead  and  liv- 
ing, came  in  for  the  censure  of  the  angry  woman. 
Even  Doalty's  great-grandfather,  accused  of  steal- 
ing sheep,  double-branding  them,  and  cutting  their 
ribigs,  was  held  up  to  scorn.  Doalty,  and  all  sib 
to  him,  were  lashed  with  Breed  Dermod's  tongue. 
It  was  only  when  her  voice  failed  her  that  Breed 
went  back  to  her  home. 

"It's  hard  to  get  the  better  iv  that  woman  in  an 
argument,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  when  the  voice 
outside  became  silent.  "She  just  came  down  here 
to  let  her  spite  out  on  me  and  ye  have  been  the  cause 
iv  it,  Doalty.  She  was  just  wantin'  an  excuse,  and 
I'm  sorry  that  ye  gave  her  that  excuse,  Doalty. 
But  I  wouldn't  give  her  the  nose  to  say  a  word  back 
to  her.  I  wouldn't  sink  meself.  But  I  wish  that 


22O  Glenmornan 

ye  wouldn't  go  gaddin'  about  after  Sheila,  and  her 
so  much  below  ye.  ...  After  comin'  back  from 
beyont  the  water,  too,  where  people  should  learn 
to  know  their  own  worth." 

Maura  The  Rosses  did  not  say  anything  fur- 
ther. The  incident  had  upset  her.  The  thought 
that  a  woman  like  Breed  Dermod  had  cause  to  com- 
plain of  one  of  her  children  was  as  much  as  Maura 
The  Rosses  could  bear. 

That  night  Doalty  stopped  in  for  the  Rosary  and 
did  not  go  out  to  see  Sheila  Dermod. 


ii 

Bringing  pencil  and  paper  with  him,  Doalty  Gal- 
lagher went  across  to  Oiney  Leahy's  the  next  morn- 
ing. When  he  had  put  out  the  cow  and  calf  to  the 
hill  he  sat  down  in  Oiney's  kitchen  and  completed 
two  stories  of  the  set  of  six  which  he  had  started 
the  day  before.  In  the  evening,  when  darkness 
was  falling,  he  went  up  to  the  hill  and  brought  the 
cow  and  calf  back  to  the  byre.  Eileen  Kelly  was 
there,  waiting  for  him. 

"You're  here  early  enough,"  said  Doalty,  as  he 
tied  the  cow  to  its  stake  in  the  warm  byre. 

"I  had  nothin'  to  do  at  all,"  Eileen  replied;  "so 
I  thought  I'd  just  come  over  and  be  in  time.  I 
may  as  well  be  here  as  anywhere  else." 

"That's  true,"  said  Doalty,  looking  at  the  girl. 
She  was  a  gracefully  built  creature  who  moved  her 
shoulders  nervously  when  speaking.  The  lines  of 


The  Mowing  221 

her  face,  clear  cut  and  a  little  severe,  softened  when 
she  smiled,  and  there  was  something  winning  and 
coaxing  in  the  sidelong  glance  she  fixed  on  Doaltyj 
when  she  spoke  to  him. 

'What  roguery  is  hiding  behind  those  black  eyes 
of  hers?"  Doalty  asked  himself,  as  she  sat  down 
on  the  stool  to  milk  the  cow.  "All  the  time  she 
seems  to  be  trying  to  resist  some  mad  impulse. 
...  I  wonder  why  I  am  taking  such  notice  of  her. 
I  almost  feel  in  the  same  mood  as  I  felt  the  other 
night  when  I  was  in  her  company.  .  .  .  It's  youth, 
I  suppose,"  he  mumbled,  in  a  reckless  whisper,  fix- 
ing an  earnest  gaze  on  her  red  three-cornered  lips, 
where  a  faint  smile  hovered.  "A  mood  like  this 
remains  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  goes,  never  to 
return." 

"Ye're  talking  to  yerself,  aren't  ye,  Doalty  Gal- 
lagher?" Eileen  asked,  her  clear  voice  rising  above 
the  sound  of  the  milk  falling  into  the  pail  held  be- 
tween her  knees.  "Do  ye  often  be  talking  to  yer- 
self?" 

"Not  often,  Eileen,"  said  Doalty. 

"It's  what  the  old  men  bees  often  doin',  talkin' 
to  themselves,"  said  the  girl.  "Oiney  Leahy  is  al- 
ways talking  to  himself  when  he's  out  in  the 
grubby,  diggin'  up  the  pipes." 

"He's  a  good  old  man,  Oiney,  isn't  he?"  asked 
Doalty. 

"Oh,  he's  not  such  a  bad  old  shanahy,"  said 
Eileen.  .  .  .  "But  God  help  him!  poor  man,  for  he 
has  his  own  troubles  and  nobody  with  him  at  all, 
to  help  him  in  this  wee  house.  It's  a  poor  thing 


222  Glenmornan 

when  one  is  left  alone  when  they  get  very  old.  .  .  ., 
Aisy  now,  wee  cow,  and  don't  be  wipin'  me  face 
with  yer  tail!" 

"Why  did  you  run  away  and  leave  me  the  other 
night?"  Doalty  enquired,  looking  at  Eileen.  "You 
turned  away  all  at  once  and  left  me  alone." 

"But  ye  didn't  want  me  to  stay  with  ye,  did  ye 
now  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Of  course  I  wanted  you  to  stay,"  said  Doalty. 

"Then  why  didn't  ye  say  sol"  ' 

"You  did  not  give  me  time." 

"But  ye'd  plenty  of  time,  Doalty  Gallagher/' 
said  Eileen.  "If  ye  had  it  in  yer  mind  for  me  to 
stay,  ye  would  say  so  before  ye  let  me  go  away. 
.  .  .  But  I  knew  what  it  was.  Ye  were  only 
wantin'  me,  seein'  that  ye  had  no  one  else  to  speak 
to.  Ye're  like  all  the  other  boys." 

"Which  boys?" 

"The  boys  about  the  road,"  said  the  girl.  ^'Now 
ye  wee  divil  ye!  ye're  waggin'  yer  tail  about  me 
face  again." 

The  milking  finished,  Eileen  got  to  her  feet. 

"Take  the  stool  into  the  house  widye,  Doalty 
Gallagher,"  she  said,  as  she  went  out.  "I'll  make 
a  drop  iv  tay  ready  for  ye  if  I  can  find  the  sugar 
at  all." 

It  was  dark  inside  when  Doalty  got  there  and 
the  turf  fire,  burning  red  on  the  hearth,  did  little 
to  light  up  the  house.  Eileen  Kelly  was  standing 
by  the  dresser,  straining  the  milk  into  a  big  crock, 
the  dog  was  nosing  about  her  feet,  looking  for 
something  to  eat. 


The  Mowing  223 

"Light  the  lamp,  if  ye  can,"  she  said.  'Tut  some 
oil  into  it  first  and  trim  the  wick.  Ye'll  find  the 
bottle  iv  oil  under  the  bed.  Ye'd  better  pit  yer  nose 
to  the  bottle  when  ye  find  it  and  see  what  it  is," 
she  added  with  a  laugh.  "Oiney  has  miny's  a 
strange  bottle  under  his  bed." 

Doalty  found  a  bottle,  smelt  it. 

"This  is  oil,"  he  said,  and  going  to  a  corner  of 
die  wall,  near  the  window,  he  brought  down  the 
lamp,  filled  it  with  oil,  trimmed  the  wick  and  lit  it. 

"That's  better  be  far  now,"  said  the  girl,  smil- 
ing at  Doalty,  who  was  rubbing  his  soiled  fingers 
against  the  leg  of  his  trousers. 

He  sat  down  and  watched  her  at  her  work. 
Eileen  was  dressed  in  a  striped  blouse  and  a  neat 
serge  skirt  pulled  in  a  little  at  the  ankles.  Strana- 
meera  girls  were  imitating  the  Greenanore  fash- 
ions and  Greenanore  was  now  making  a  brave  dis- 
play of  hobble  skirts.  Eileen  also  had  her  boots 
on,  though  earlier  in  the  day  when  Doalty  saw  her 
going  to  the  neighbours'  houses  she  was  barefooted. 
But  her  reasons  for  wearing  boots  now  could  be 
easily  understood.  She  wanted  to  show  Doalty 
that  she  could  dress  just  as  well  as  the  people 
abroad.  The  Glenmornan  girls  are  as  vain  as 
women  generally  are  supposed  to  be. 

Eileen  put  the  kettle  on  the  crook,  stirred  up 
the  fire  and  sat  down. 

"Ye've  been  in  here  all  the  day,  haven't  ye?" 
she  enquired  shyly.  Although  bashful,  she  was 
very  eager  to  talk. 

"I  have  been  writing  all  day." 


224  Glenmornan 

"And  what  would  ye  be  writing  about  now?" 
she  enquired.  "I  suppose  it  will  be  to  some  girl 
that  ye've  been  spakin'  to  over  there." 

"It's  not  to  any  girl." 

"Ye  haven't  one?" 

"No." 

"And  ye  think  that  the  people  about  here  are 
goin'  to  believe  that?"  she  asked,  with  an  incredu- 
lous quiver  of  her  lips.  She  spoke  rapidly,  as  if 
she  was  going  to  say  quite  a  number  of  things  in 
a  short  time.  "Ye'll  be  back  here  for  a  wee  while 
I  know,  and  then  ye'll  leave  us  again,"  she  said. 

"I'm  never  going  away  from  here  again,"  Doalty 
told  her. 

"Catch  ye  stayin'  here,  Doalty  Gallagher,  where 
there's  not  a  decent  girl  at  all  to  be  seen,"  said 
Eileen.  "Ye'll  be  soon  tired  iv  us  all,  even  iv 
Sheila  Dermod  that  ye're  mad  after." 

"She's  a  strange  girl,"  said  Doalty  without  con- 
tradicting Eileen's  assertion.  "A  numbe.r  of  the 
glen  fellows  are  in  love  with  her,  are  they  not?" 

"Some  are,  maybe,"  said  Eileen  petulantly,  "but 
one  can  never  tell  what's  in  the  mind  iv  a  boy,  can 
they?" 

"Did  you  hear  Breed  Dermod  down  at  our  house 
yesterday?"  asked  Doalty. 

"That's  the  way  that  she  has  with  her,  poor 
woman,"  said  Eileen.  "She's  very  thran  and 
throughother,  but  no  one  takes  much  heed  iv  her 
at  all,  once  they  get  to  know  her.  .  .  .  She  doesn't 
like  the  young  people  to  have  their  wee  bit  iv  fun 
and  that's  what's  wrong  with  her.  .  .  .  But  are 


The  Mowing  225 

ye  in  earnest,  Doalty  Gallagher,  when  ye  say  that 
ye're  never  goin'  away  from  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I'm  in  earnest." 

"Cross  on  yer  neck,  then." 

Doalty  made  a  cross  on  his  neck  with  his  thumb 
as  a  proof  of  the  truth  of  his  words. 

"Then  ye'll  marry  and  settle  down  here,  won't 
ye?" 

"I  may,"  said  Doalty,  with  a  laugh. 

"Well,  nobody  here  thinks  that,"  Eileen  con- 
fessed. "They  think  that  ye'll  go  away  with  the 
tourists  when  the  wet  and  cold  weather  comes." 

The  girl,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  got  to  her 
feet  and  made  the  tea.  Then  the  two  of  them 
sat  at  the  table  and  had  their  meal  together. 

When  it  was  finished  Eileen  reached  out  and 
caught  Doalty's  bowl  and  looked  at  the  tea-leaves 
at  the  bottom  of  it. 

"I  can  read  the  bowl,"  she  said,  bending  her  head 
down  over  it  and  scrutinising  the  tea-leaves. 

Then  as  if  reading  from  a  book  she  said : 

"There's  a  parcel  comin'  for  ye,  and  ye're  goin' 
to  have  a  quarrel  with  a  dark  woman,  and  ye're 
goin'  to  cross  deep  water,  and  ye'll  have  a  lot  iv 
trouble,  and  then  ye'll  be  happy." 

"But  how  do  you  know  all  this?"  asked  Doalty. 

"The  bowl  says  so,"  was  Eileen's  simple  answer. 
"Can  yerself  read  a  bowl?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"Can  ye  read  the  hands?" 

"Not  even  the  hands,"  said  Doalty. 

"Show  me  yer  hand  then  and  I'll  read  it  for 


226  Glenmornan 

ye,"  said  Eileen,  and  with  a  complete  absence  of 
shyness  or  self-consciousness  she  caught  Doalty's 
hand  and  read  his  fortune  from  the  palm.  The 
second  reading  differed  from  the  first  and  when 
Doalty  remarked  on  this,  the  girl  looked  at  him, 
and  it  seemed  to  the  man  that  she  pressed  his  hand 
with  a  warmer  grip  as  she  spoke. 

"It  may  not  be  the  same  this  time,"  she  agreed. 
"But  one  of  them  must  be  right  and  whither  it's 
the  palm  of  the  hand  or  the  bottom  of  the  bowl  I 
cannot  say." 

That  night  Doalty  was  late  in  returning  home, 
and  when  he  got  there  he  found  that  his  mother, 
was  out. 

"She's  away  up  to  Breed  Dermod's,"  said  Norah. 
"Breed,  poor  woman,  has  got  the  sickness  and  she's 
lying  very  low.  So  our  mother  has  gone  up  to 
see  her,  and  Owen  Briney  has  gone  as  hard  as  he 
can  for  the  priest." 

in 

Oiney  Leahy  came  back  from  Lough  Derg  next 
day  and  the  evening  had  fallen  when  he  arrived 
in  Glenmornan.  On  his  way  home  across  the 
braes,  he  called  at  Maura  The  Rosses'  house. 
Maura  was  out,  having  gone  to  see  Breed  Dermod, 
who  was  still  poorly.  Now  that  sickness  had  come 
the  neighbour's  feud  was  forgotten.  Doalty  was 
at  home;  Norah  and  Kitty  were  also  there,  and 
Hughie  Beag  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  his  heels  in 
the  ashes,  and  a  book  in  his  hand.  Hughie,  who 


The  Mowing  227 

had  never  been  at  school,  was  imitating  his  elder 
brothers  and  sisters,  reading  an  imaginary  lesson 
in  a  sing-song  voice,  halting  now  and  again  for  a 
moment,  as  if  puzzling  over  a  word,  and  at  times 
putting  a  local  incident  into  the  lesson. 
This  was  how  the  lesson  proceeded: 

"Jack  has  a  cart.  He  can — draw  sand  and — 
clay.  Micky — Neddy  has  no  cart.  ...  He  has  a 
— buck  tooth.  .  .  .  Paddy  Heela  has  a — crook-ed 
leg.  Breed — Dermod  has  the — sickness.  .  .  . 
Doalty  is  a — Pod-ism,"  etc. 

Oiney  Leahy  came  in,  his  hat  well  to  the  back 
of  his  head,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  the  bowl  turned 
down  and  resting  on  his  white  beard.  As  he  came 
in,  he  staggered  a  little  and  put  out  his  hand  against 
the  air  as  if  to  steady  himself. 

"Bejara !  it's  the  corns,"  he  said  in  a  slow  voice. 
"Bejara !  I  can  hardly  walk  with  them  at  all.  .  .  . 
Slow  and  stiddy  goes  far  in  a  day  and  an  old  dog 
— an  old  dog  for  the — for  the  hard  road,  but  a  pup 
for  the  level.  .  .  .  It's  the  corns,  Maura  The 
Rosses,  the  corns." 

Oiney  Leahy  leant  against  the  wall  by  the  door 
and  looked  round  the  room. 

"It's  the  corns,"  he  said.  "Can't  shake  a  leg 
with  them!" 

"Now  sit  down,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty,  catching 
the  old  man  by  the  arm  and  conducting  him  to  a 
chair.  "Sit  down  here  and  rest  yourself." 

Oiney  sat  down  and  puffed  at  his  pipe. 

"Gi'mme  a  light,"  he  said.     "It's  gone  out." 

Norah  Gallagher  lit  a  fir  spale  and  handed  it  to 


228  Glenmornan 

Oiney.  Hughie  Gallagher  turned  to  his  lessons 
again. 

"Jack  has  a  cart,"  he  read.  "He  can  draw  sand 
and  clay.  Oiney — is — drunk.  He  was — at — 
Lough — Derg.  He  is  back  now.  He  has  the — 
corns — he  is  drunk." 

The  little  boy  put  down  the  book,  looked  slyly 
at  Oiney  and  laughed.  Then  as  if  overcome  with 
shame  at  his  own  boldness,  he  rushed  up  to  the 
little  room  and  hid  himself.  He  was  in  no  hurry 
to  come  back,  but  now  and  again,  he  could  be  seen 
peeping  round  the  corner  of  the  door,  his  bright 
eyes  twinkling  roguishly. 

"I'm  not  the  worse  iv  the  drink,"  said  the  old 
man.  "It's  the  corns.  They  are  not  good  for  a 
journey." 

He  looked  at  Doalty. 

'Where's  Maura  The  Rosses?"  he  enquired. 

"She's  out,"  said  Norah  Gallagher. 

"Out  at  this  hour,"  said  Oiney.  "Where  will 
she  be  now?" 

"She's  away  over  to  the  shop  to  get  some  male," 
said  Norah,  for  the  girl  did  not  want  Oiney,  who 
was  hardly  in  a  fit  condition  for  a  sick  visit,  to  go 
up  to  Breed  Dermod's  that  night. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  the  glen  girls  are 
comin'  to,"  said  the  old  man.  "Lettin'  their  moth- 
ers run  out  to  the  shop  at — at  this  hour  of  the 
night!  Did  ye  go  over  an'  milk  me  bit — bit  iv  a 
cow,  Norah  Gallagher,  when  I  was  away?"  he 
asked. 

"Iv  course  I  went  over.    But  I  didn't  think  that 


The  Mowing  229 

ye'd  come  back  this  way,"  said  Norah,  in  tones  of 
mock  severity.  She  had  never  seen  Oiney  Leahy 
come  back  sober  from  Lough  Derg. 

"It's  the  corns,  first  and  foremost,"  said  the  old 
man.  "I'll  grant  ye  that  I  had  a  drop  when  I  got 
my  duties  done  and  past,  but — but  there's  nothin* 
wrong  in  that.  I'm  not  a  man  to  take  the  pledge 
as  long  as  I  can  carry  a  wee  drop  aisy.  What's 
the  good  iv  a  pledge  to  me  anyway  ?  What  I  can't 
be,  be  nature,  I'm  not  goin'  to  be,  be  obligation. 
That's  me  in  a  word,  a  man  of  eighty  if  a  day,  too. 
If  it  wasn't  for  the  corns  I  could  shake  a  ready 
foot  on  the  floor  under  me  this  very  minit." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  that,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty. 

"And  in  the  old  times  I  was  a  great  singer," 
said  Oiney.  "Come  now,  I've  a  bit  iv  a  voice." 

"Won't  ye  sing  a  bit  iv  a  song  for  us  now?" 
asked  Norah. 

"I  won't  be  troublin'  Doalty  d'ye  think?"  said 
Oiney,  looking  at  Norah,  and  taking  no  notice  of 
Doalty. 

"Iv  course  Doalty  will  be  glad  to  hear  ye  at  the 
singin',  Oiney,"  said  the  girl.  "So  let's  hear  ye 
at  the  song." 

Oiney  sat  back  in  his  chair,  pressed  out  his  chest, 
pulled  his  chin  and  stomach  in,  thrust  his  hat  to 
the  back  of  his  white  head,  buttoned  the  lower  but- 
ton of  his  coat,  put  his  little  clay  pipe  in  his  pocket 
and  began  his  song: 

"Old  Ann  Eamon  Dubh  went  to  market  one  day, 
Went  up  to  the  standin's  and  this  she  did  say: 


230  Glenmornan 

'I've  money  to  bargain  and  money  to  spare, 
And  I'll  give  ye  a  crown  for  yer  crockery  ware/  " 

Oiney  put  his  head  to  one  side,  shut  his  eyes, 
waved  his  hand  over  his  hat  and  went  on  with  in- 
creasing energy: 

"She  came  home  in  the  dark,  with  the  crocks  in  her 

shawl 

And  her  daughter  did  not  expect  her  at  all 
And  the  girsha  was  sittin'  with  a  man  in  a  chair 
When  her  mother  came  in  with  the  crockery  ware." 

Oiney,  his  beard  quivering,  and  his  feet  mark- 
ing time  on  the  floor,  turned  to  Norah  and  winked 
at  her. 

"That's  the  way  that  love  was  made  in  the  ould 
times,"  he  said.  "It  was  then  that  the  people  knew 
how  to  do  things.  When  the  hawk  was  in  its  nest 
the  chickens  played  tig  in  the  streets." 

Oiney  winked  again,  but  this  time  at  Doalty  Gal- 
lagher. Then  he  caught  the  young  man's  hand 
and  went  on  with  the  song: 

"The  man  he  was  Shemus,  The  Rachary  Wor,— 
When  the  woman  came  in  he  ran  out  be  the  door 
And  Ann  in  her  fright,  then  she  tripped  on  a  chair 
And  she  broke  every  bit  iv  the  crockery  ware." 

The  song  was  quite  a  long  one,  but  Oiney  knew 
every  verse  of  it.  It  told  how  Ann  Eamon  Dubh 
was  very  angry,  how  she  claimed  seven-pounds- 
ten,  for  the  damage  to  the  crockery,  and  how 
Shemus,  The  Rachary  Wor,  being  a  good,  decent 
man  and  beholden  to  none,  paid  every  pennv  of  the 


The  Mowing  231 

money,  rather  than  go  to  the  law  about  it.  Then 
Shemus  married  the  daughter  of  Ann  Eamon 
Dubh,  and  a  finer  wedding  was  never  seen  before 
or  after  in  the  seven  corners  of  the  country. 

"A  good  man  Shemus  must  have  been,"  said 
Oiney,  when  the  song  came  to  an  end.  "It  was 
wise  iv  him  not  to  go  to  the  law  too,  for  the  law- 
yers are  able  to  catch  the  best  fish  in  troubled 
waters.  So  Shemus  must  have  been  a  cute  one, 
not  to  get  into  their  hands." 

At  that  moment  Owen  Briney  came  in.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  house  of  Maura  The  Rosses  since 
Doalty  came  home.  Norah  shook  hands  with  the 
man  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear.  No 
doubt  she  was  advising  him  not  to  let  Oiney  know 
that  Breed  Dermod  was  not  keeping  well.  With- 
out a  word  to  anybody  else,  Owen  went  out  again 
and  Norah  followed  him. 

"Well  that's  a  funny  caper,"  said  Oiney,  when 
the  man  and  woman  had  left  the  house.  "I  never 
thought  that  Norah  Gallagher  would  be  so  big  with 
Owen  Briney  as  to  go  out  in  the  dark  with  him. 
What  is  there  between  the  two  iv  them?" 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of,"  said  Doalty. 

"Well,  there  shouldn't  be,"  said  the  old  man. 
"What  could  there  be  between  a  fellow  iv  that  get 
and  a  decent,  respectable  girl  like  Norah?  Ah! 
I  don't  know  what  this  glen  is  comin'  to  at  all.  .  .  . 
I'm  goin'  home  across  the  braes  now,  Doalty." 

"I'll  go  over  with  you  as  far  as  your  home,"  said 
Doalty. 


232  Glenmornan 

The  old  man  stood  up  and  looked  sternly  at 
Doalty. 

"I'll  go  home  be  meself,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  taken  home  like  a  man  that's 
drunk,  with  nothin'  wrong  with  me,  only  me  corns 
that  are  bad.  Good  night  t'ye  all." 

He  went  out  sideways  through  the  door,  his  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  the  bowl,  turned  down,  resting  on  his 
beard.  Presently  he  poked  his  head  in  again. 

"Isn't  it  time  that  ye  were  startin'  on  the  hay, 
Doalty?"  he  said. 

"I'll  start  mowing  to-morrow,  I  think,"  Doalty 
replied. 

"That's  the  way,"  said  Oiney.  "It's  best  to  get 
it  in  han'cocks  before  the  corn  is  drop-ripe,  and 
the  weather  is  good  for  the  job.  I'll  come  over 
the  morra  and  give  ye  hand,  for  I'm  owin'  it  to 
ye  since  ye've  helped  me  with  the  turf.  Every  one 
in  the  glen  will  be  at  the  hay  the  morra." 

"When  will  you  be  here  in  the  morning?" 
Doalty  enquired. 

"At  the  first  light,  me  boyo,  the  first  light,"  said 
the  old  man.  "Good  night  t'ye  again  and  to  all  in 
the  house." 

As  Oiney  staggered  off,  Norah  Gallagher  came 
in  again. 

"Breed  Dermod  is  very  low,"  she  said.  "Our 
ma  is  goin'  to  stay  and  look  over  her  all  the  night." 

"So  the  quarrel  is  settled,"  said  Doalty. 

"Well,  who  would  be  havin'  a  quarrel  with  a 
sick  person?"  asked  Norah  Gallagher.  "What 
kind  iv  people  d'ye  think  are  in  the  glen  nowa- 


The  Mowing  233 

days?  .  .  .  Hughie  Beag,  come  down  and  let  us 
see  ye  be  the  fire,"  she  called,  shaking  her  fist  at 
the  tousled  head  which  stuck  through  the  door  of 
the  little  room.  "YeVe  got  to  get  into  bed  at 
once." 

Doalty  went  out  and  took  down  ihe  scythe  from 
the  rafters  of  the  byre,  and  put  it  into  the  spring 
well.  The  cold  water  would  tighten  sned  and  han- 
dles and  the  implement  would  be  fit  for  its  labour 
by  dawn. 


IV 


It  was  not  yet  light  next  morning,  when  Doalty 
got  up  from  his  bed  and  took  down  the  sharping- 
stone  from  a  shelf  of  the  dresser.  Going  out,  he 
lifted  the  scythe  from  the  well  in  which  he  had 
placed  it  the  previous  night.  He  found  it  a  bit 
rusty,  for  it  had  not  seen  service  since  last  harvest. 
The  sned,  home-made,  was  rather  a  clumsy  one, 
and  its  handles  fashioned  from  seasoned  ash  had 
lost  some  of  the  polished  finish  which  the  strong 
hand  of  Connel  Gallagher  had  given  them  the  sea- 
son before. 

"It  will  take  some  work  to  get  this  into  order," 
Doalty  mused,  as  he  slung  it  over  his  shoulder. 
Hanging  unused  in  the  dry  byre  for  the  preced- 
ing Winter,  the  scythe  had  been  falling  to  pieces. 
"It  wants  a  good  clean  edge,"  Doalty  reasoned. 
"But  how  fine!  how  grand!  .  .  .  Mowing  again." 

He  went  into  the  field  under  the  house,  the  dog 
following  at  his  heels.  The  sun  was  not  yet  up, 


234  Glenmornan 

but  the  birds  were.  They  chattered  in  the  trees 
and  hedgerows.  A  breeze  swept  across  the  braes, 
whitening  the  leaves  of  the  birch  trees  as  it  passed 
through  them.  Up  from  the  bottom  lands  a  thin, 
white  mist  was  rising,  and  the  river  under  the 
shadow. of  the  hazel  bushes  was  still  dark.  A  fog 
circled  lazily  round  the  hills,  and  many  colours 
showed  in  the  sky  behind  Carnaween.  As  Doalty 
went  down  the  brae  towards  the  holm  the  grasses 
brushed  against  his  knees,  wetting  his  trousers. 
The  dog,  in  a  sportive  mood,  careered  madly 
through  the  field,  rolling  over  and  over  through 
the  wet  ripple-grass  in  mad  abandon.  A  corn- 
crake railed  near  the  river.  .  .  .  Up  by  Oiney 
Leahy's  a  cock  was  crowing. 

The  holm  was  ready  for  the  scythe,  though  up 
on  the  braes  the  grass  was  as  yet  sparse  and  thin. 
In  the  bottom  land,  between  road  and  river,  the 
luxurious  and  sappy  hay  had  fallen  level  with  the 
ground  and  the  meadow  was  one  big  carpet  of 
green  that  had  dropped  flat  under  its  own  richness. 
This  lazy  grass,  over- fat,  hard  to  cut  and  dry,  had 
to  be  saved  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  the  river  in 
flood  had  a  tendency  to  rise  over  banks  flush  with 
the  holms.  It  happened  many  a  time  that  the  re- 
sults of  a  hard  week's  mowing  were  washed  away 
by  floods  that  only  took  a  couple  of  hours  to  rise. 

Doalty  began  to  sharpen  his  scythe.  He  placed 
the  end  of  the  sned  on  the  ground,  the  thick  butt 
of  the  blade  under  his  oxter,  allowing  the  left  arm 
to  rest  on  its  back,  the  hand  over  the  tip.  With 
a  firm  movement  he  rubbed  the  stone  backwards 


The  Mowing  235 

and  forwards  along  the  top,  raising  his  left  thumb 
at  intervals,  to  allow  the  stone  to  pass. 

The  sharpening  of  the  main  blade-edge  was  more 
difficult.  To  do  this,  Doalty  bent  on  his  left  knee, 
the  sned  placed  diagonally  across  his  leg,  the  top  of 
the  handle  and  the  tip  of  the  blade  on  the  ground. 
He  brought  the  stone  down  one  side  of  the  blade, 
then  down  the  other,  in  long  sweeping  movements, 
swinging  it  free  on  each  occasion,  when  it  almost 
touched  the  ground.  This  movement  was  repeated 
many  times,  for  the  temper  of  an  old  blade,  grown 
rusty  with  disuse,  is  hard  to  pacify.  When  Doalty 
finished  he  felt  the  blade  with  his  thumb  and  hit  it 
sharply  with  his  nail.  The  blade  tinkled  musically. 

"It  rings  true,"  he  said  with  a  boyish  smile. 
"Now  I'll  begin.  .  .  .  And  there  .  .  .  the  sun. 
And  old  Oiney's  afoot  with  smoke  in  his  house. 
All  the  glen  people  are  getting  up,  but  none  are  as 
early  as  me  though.  .  .  .  But  why  should  I 
chuckle?"  he  asked  himself.  "I  have  got  up  like 
this  just  once  in  a  while  and  it's  their  daily  life." 

He  unloosened  his  braces,  tied  them  round  his 
waist,  thrust  up  his  shirt  sleeves  and  bent  to  the 
work.  Round  the  corners  of  the  field,  where  the 
grass  was  short  and  dry,  it  could  be  cut  in  long 
swathes.  It  was  here  that  Doalty  commenced  his 
work.  Swinging  his  scythe  with  energy  he  tested 
its  temper.  The  blade,  a  good  one,  cut  like  a  razor. 

"My  hand  has  not  forgotten  its  cunning,"  he  said 
with  a  laugh.  "This  is  heavenly!  ...  I'm  swing- 
it  too  wide  though.  If  I'm  not  careful  it  will  tire 
nie  out  before  breakfast.  .  .  ." 


236  Glenmornan 

He  cut  a  swathe  some  fifteen  paces  in  length, 
then  bending  down  he  lifted  a  wisp  of  hay,  rubbed 
his  scythe,  put  it  on  his  shoulder  and  retraced  his 
steps.  As  he  walked  the  scythe  got  dry.  At  the 
original  starting  point  he  sharpened  it  again  and 
commenced  a  second  sward.  Before  he  came  to 
the  end  he  felt  tired.  His  breath  came  in  short 
gasps  and  beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. The  sward  was  too  wide  and  took  too  much 
out  of  the  mower.  But  he  would  not  stop.  All 
the  glen  were  watching  him,  he  knew.  A  rich  man 
home  from  foreign  parts  and  mowing  hay,  just 
like  one  of  themselves,  would  evoke  no  end  of  in- 
terest and  comment.  "They'll  say  that  I'll  not  be 
able  to  keep  it  up  for  very  long,"  Doalty  muttered, 
and  the  thought  braced  him  up.  Determined  not 
to  be  beaten,  he  finished  the  sward,  sharpened  his 
scythe,  spat  on  his  hands  and  commenced  another. 

The  sun  got  up  over  Carnaween,  and  every  house 
in  the  glen  was  smoking.  The  cows,  already 
milked,  were  now  out  grazing.  Norah,  her  hair 
plaited  down  her  back,  brought  out  the  Gallagher's 
cows,  putting  them  into  the  park  behind  the  house. 
The  girl  was  barefooted,  her  face  half  hidden  by 
a  big  blue-spotted  handkerchief.  From  where 
Doalty  was  at  work  it  seemed  as  if  the  handkerchief 
was  wholly  white. 

Unconscious  of  the  passage  of  time,  the  mower 
swung  round  his  scythe  in  great  semi-circles,  rib- 
bing the  field  with  long,  heavy  swathes.  As  the 
blade  cut  through  it,  the  grass  toppled  slowly  down, 
carrying  with  it  nodding  plumes  and  delicate  and 


The  Mowing  237 

graceful  flowers.  The  holm  was  a  world  of  col- 
our and  bloom,  and  to  Doalty,  the  work  was  full 
of  delight  and  pleasure  and  healthy  weariness. 
Towards  the  end  of  each  sward  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  going  to  drop  from  exhaustion,  but  he  was 
none  the  less  eager  to  start  on  the  next  round  of 
work.  The  sweat  stood  out  from  every  pore.  It 
trickled  down  his  brow  into  his  eyes,  paining  him 
not  a  little;  into  his  mouth  and  he  could  taste  its 
salty  savour. 

He  did  not  see  Oiney  coming,  and  was  only 
aware  of  the  old  man's  presence  when  he  crossed 
the  ditch  and  laid  down  his  scythe  on  the  ground. 

"God  bless  the  work,"  said  Oiney.  "It's  up  and 
at  it  early  that  ye  are." 

"The  morning  was  such  a  good  one  that  I  could 
not  lie  in  bed,"  said  Doalty. 

"Of  course  ye  couldn't,  man,"  Oiney  made  an- 
swer. "Ye're  just  like  me  when  I  was  yer  years 
long  ago.  Then  I  was  afoot,  late  and  early.  .  .  . 
But  you're  not  a  bad  hand  with  the  scythe,  Doalty, 
and  ye're  able  to  make  a  good  fist  iv  the  job.  Just 
as  good  as  one  iv  ourselves  ye'd  be,  if  'twasn't  that 
ye  bear  too  much  on  yer  hand,  and  stoop  a  bit  too 
low  on  the  sned.  But  ye'll  get  over  that  when  ye 
get  yer  hand  in." 

As  he  spoke,  he  pulled  his  old  battered  hat  well 
down  over  his  head,  felt  in  a  pocket  for  his  pipe, 
and  put  it  in  his  mouth. 

"But  I  was  bad  with  the  corns  last  night,"  he 
said,  shaking  his  head. 

"Yes,  you  were,  Oiney,"  Doalty  assented. 


238  Glenmornan 

"I  never  had  them  so  bad." 

"But  that  was  on  account  of  the  long  journey, 
and  m^ybe  your  boots  were  too  tight/'  said  Doalty, 
who  saw  that  the  old  man  was  sorry  for  the  drink 
which  he  had  taken  the  day  before. 

"That  was  it,"  said  Oiney,  a  smile  of  relief  show- 
ing on  his  face.  "The  boots  were  bad  for  the  jour- 
ney. Far  too  tight  across  the  uppers  they  were. 
.  .  .  But  this  is  a  good  bit  iv  land  that  ye  have 
here,"  he  continued.  "Grass  second  to  none  in 
the  townland.  And  see  how  low  it  lies,  and  doesn't 
want  to  show  itself  off.  The  best  grass  keeps  low- 
est to  the  ground,  and  the  thin  famine  grass  that 
rises  on  the  braes,  sticks  its  head  up  as  if  it  owned 
the  whole  field.  It's  the  same  with  people  just." 

Norah  Gallagher  came  out  in  front  of  the  house, 
put  her  handkerchief  on  a  holly  bush  that  grew 
there. 

"That's  the  sign  for  breakfast,  Oiney,"  said 
Doalty,  pointing  at  the  holly  bush.  "We'll  go  in 
and  have  a  bite." 

Maura  The  Rosses  was  in  the  house  when  they 
got  there.  She  had  been  up  all  night,  attending 
to  the  sick  woman.  Breed  Dermod  was  in*  a  sore 
way,  and  in  the  early  morning  she  had  been  play- 
ing with  the  blankets.  This  was  a  sure  sign  of 
death,  Maura  The  Rosses  said.  "And  Breed  was 
such  a  good  woman  too,"  she  added,  already  speak- 
ing of  Breed  as  if  she  no  longer  remained  on  this 
world. 


The  Mowing  239 


THe  two  men  went  out  to  the  field  again  when 
they  had  taken  their  meal.  Oiney  led  the  sward 
and  Doalty  followed.  The  old  man  worked  eas- 
ily, cutting  the  grass  without  any  apparent  energy. 
Now  and  again  when  Doalty  pressed  close  on  his 
heels  he  would  turn  round,  rub  his  hand  over  his 
wrinkled  brow  and  say,  "Slow  and  stiddy  goes  a 
fair  pace,  me  boyo,  and  the  day's  young  yet." 

At  noon  Oiney  was  mowing  with  the  same  un- 
troubled serenity  and  he  had  no  longer  to  turn 
round  and  advise  Doalty  to  go  easy.  By  this  time 
the  younger  man  was  unable  to  force  the  pace;  to 
keep  up  with  Oiney  required  all  the  energy  that  he 
possessed.  Once  or  twice  he  tried  to  draw  Oiney 
into  a  conversation,  and  the  old  man  spoke  as  eas- 
ily when  mowing  as  when  standing  still. 

"What  will  happen  to  Sheila  Dermod  if  her 
mother  dies  ?"  Doalty  once  asked  when  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  sward. 

"What  will  happen  to  the  girsha?"  said  Oiney, 
without  losing  the  swing  of  his  scythe.  "Ah! 
that's  easy  enough  seen.  She'll  get  a  young  ga- 
sair  to  take  her  in  charge  and  he'll  be  a  lucky  boy 
too,  for  when  Sheila  gets  all  thoughts  iv  fun  out 
iv  her  head  and  settles  down  to  work,  she'll  be  as 
steady  a  woman  as  is  in  the  whole  barony.  .  .  . 
Ah,  ye  rogue,  ye  almost  got  cut  in  two !" 

As  Oiney  said  this,  he  bent  and  lifted  a  frog 
which  had  narrowly  escaped  the  scythe,  placed  it 


240  Glenmornan 

out  of  harm's  way  on  a  swathe  of  lying  grass  and 
gazed  sternly  at  it. 

"Now  hop  off  widye,  ye  limb!"  he  admonished 
it,  "and  don't  be  runnin'  in  the  way  iv  me  edge 
or  ye'll  maybe  get  a  cut  across  the  belly." 

He  shook  a  warning  finger  at  the  little  animal, 
already  hopping  away,  and  resumed  his  mowing. 
Coming  to  the  end  of  the  sward  he  looked  back 
on  the  stretch  which  Doalty  had  cut. 

"There's  one  thing  that  ye  should  always  bear 
in  mind,  Doalty,"  he  said,  "and  that  is  this.  Never 
sharpen  yer  scythe  in  patches  as  ye've  been  doin'. 
Try  and  have  a  keen  edge  all  the  way  along  and 
ye  11  not  leave  the  shifiins  standin'.  The  blunt  bits 
iv  the  scythe  are  slippin'  over  the  hay  and  that 
will  never  do,  ye  know.  Ye  can  always  tell  the 
worth  of  a  mowster  be  the  field  behind  him." 

"The  scythe  was  in  a  bad  state  when  I  got  it," 
said  Doalty  deferentially. 

"It  shouldn't  be,  seein'  that  yer  father,  God  rest 
him!  had  the  last  handling  iv  it,"  said  Oiney. 
"None  bar  meself,  maybe,  could  get  a  better  edge 
than  him." 

The  two  were  half  way  down  the  next  sward 
when  Oiney  stopped  to  look  up  the  brae.  Doalty 
followed  Oiney's  gaze  and  saw  Maura  The  Rosses 
coming  down  from  Breed  Dermod's,  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross  over  her  brow,  chin  and  breast 
as  she  hurried  down  to  her  own  home. 

"Breed  Dermod's  gone,"  said  Oiney,  blessing 
himself  and  making  a  silent  prayer.  When  he 


The  Mowing  241 

finished  he  lifted  his  scythe  over  his  shoulder  and 
made  his  way  to  the  road.  Doalty  followed.  The 
work  of  the  farm  was  at  an  end  for  the  day.  Not 
a  hand's  turn  would  be  done  by  the  people  of 
Stranameera  now,  until  Breed  Dermod  was  buried. 


CHAPTER 


THE  WAKE 

Now  in  our  own  townland  they  say, 
"To  every  man  alive,  his  day 
To  dig  and  delve  and  set  and  sow 
And  labour  as  the  seasons  go, 
To  let  a  rope  or  make  a  creel, 
To  sing  a  song  and  foot  a  reel, 
To  keep  a  trust  and  never  budge 
From  what  is  right,  and  bear  no  grudge 
Against  his  neighbours,  near  and  far, 
No  matter  who  or  what  they  are,  .  .  . 
The  man  who  lives  like  this  will  find 
He  gets  respect  from  kith  and  kind, 
And  good  strong  backs  will  bear  the  load 
When  he  gets  carried  down  the  road, 
Shoulder-high,  at  close  of  day, 
A  tenant  to  a  house  of  clay." 

— Across  the  March  Ditch. 


ALL  Stranameera  was  early  in  attendance  at 
the   wake   that   night.      Being   near,   and 
having  no  work  to  do,  the  neighbours  might 
as  well  be  there  as  anywhere  else.     When  Doalty 
Gallagher,  who  had  been  busy  writing  all  through 
the  afternoon,  went  up,  the  house  was  crowded  and 
more  were  coming  in.     The  Meenawarawor  peo- 
242 


The  Wake  243 

pie,  not  having  to  forsake  their  work,  because  they 
belonged  to  another  townland,  were  late  in  arriv- 
ing. The  weather  being  good  for  the  hay,  the 
reapers  kept  to  the  fields  till  darkness  fell. 

The  kitchen  was  crowded.  A  big  turf  fire 
blazed  on  the  hearth,  and  hanging  from  a  crook 
above  it  was  a  large  three-legged  pot  filled  with 
water.  Three  lamps  were  lit.  One,  hanging 
from  the  rigging  by  a  long  string,  waved  back- 
wards and  forwards  over  the  table,  placed  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  another  nailed  to  the  wall,  near 
the  door,  flared  fitfully  as  if  lacking  oil,  and  the 
third,  the  globe  of  which  was  blackened  with  soot, 
was  attached  to  the  brace  over  the  fireplace. 
Crania  Coolin,  barefooted,  with  her  gosling-grey 
handkerchief  over  her  head,  was  sitting  on  a  stool 
by  the  fire,  beside  Maura  The  Rosses.  Both 
women  were  speaking  in  whispers  and  nodding 
their  heads  from  time  to  time.  The  hot  room  was 
filled  with  the  odour  of  tobacco  smoke  and  per- 
spiring bodies. 

In  a  corner  of  the  room,  furthest  away  from  the 
door,  the  dead  woman  lay  in  a  bed  by  the  wail,  her 
white  face  showing  above  the  blankets.  Seen  from 
the  doorway  by  Doalty,  as  he  entered,  those  who 
sat  or  knelt  there  were  mingled  together  in  a 
strange  blur.  The  young  man  made  his  way  to 
the  bed,  went  down  on  his  knees  to  pray.  As  he 
knelt  there  he  could  hear  Oiney  Leahy  speaking, 
and  his  talk  was  of  death. 

"I'm  not  afeard  of  death,"  said  the  old  man. 
"It's  a  thing  that'll  only  happen  once  and  I'll  go 


244  Glenmornan 

easy  when  it  comes  to  me  own  time.  It's  not  in 
me  to  be  sorry  when  God  sees  fit  to  take  me.  The 
goin*  away  iv  any  one  iv  us  will  not  intherfere  with 
the  gatherin'  iv  the  turf,  or  the  cuttin'  iv  the  corn. 
.  .  .  We'll  all  go  one  day  and  it's  all  one  to  the 
grave-digger  who  dies  first.  ...  If  a  man  goes 
after  the  kibbin',  some  one  will  be  left  to  dig  the 
pratees.  And  for  all  iv  us,  the  time  that  we  live  is 
well  worth  the  money  that  we  pay  for  it." 

Doalty  got  to  his  feet  and  took  a  seat  beside 
Oiney. 

"Good  night  t'ye,  Doalty,"  said  Oiney,  shak- 
ing the  young  man  by  the  hand.  "Feelin'  tired 
after  the  mornin's  work?" 

"Not  in  the  least,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty. 

"Doesn't  Breed,  God  be  merciful  to  her,  make 
a  good  corpse,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  on  the 
dead  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  He  had  helped 
to  dress  many  a  dead  man  in  his  time.  "It's  hard 
to  think  that  she  was  with  us  this  morning.  .  .  . 
And  now  she's  gone.  But  she  was  a  good  woman 
and  never  had  an  evil  word  for  any  one.  .  .  . 
And  to  think  that  she  would  have  gone  away  the 
day,"  Oiney  continued.  "This  day  is  the  day  iv 
all  days,  the  master  day.  It  passes  judgment  on 
all  the  years  iv  one's  life  and  acquits  us  iv  all 
bonds." 

"That's  true,"  said  Doalty. 

"But  ye're  not  havin'  a  smoke  at  all,"  said  Oiney, 
getting  to  his  feet  and  taking  out  a  bundle  of  white 
clay  pipes  and  a  lump  of  thick  black  tobacco  from 
a  recess  in  the  wall,  near  the  fireplace. 


The  Wake  245 

'"I  don't  smoke  a  pipe,"  said  Doalty. 

'There's  nothin'  like  a  pipe,"  said  the  old  man 
with  an  air  that  brooked  no  contradiction.  He 
went  round  the  room,  giving  pipes  to  the  company, 
and  Doalty  looked  for  Sheila,  to  find  her  coming 
towards  him. 

"Good  night  to  ye,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  said  the 
girl,  and  they  shook  hands. 

"Good  night,  Sheila,"  Doalty  replied.  "I'm 
sorry  that  your  poor  mother  has  died.  May  she 
rest  in  peace." 

A  tear  showed  in  Sheila's  eyes  and  Doalty  felt 
at  a  loss  what  to  say.  A  strange  constraint  had 
seized  hold  of  him.  He  still  held  her  hand,  press- 
ing it  warmly,  while  thoughts,  tumultuous  and  in- 
coherent, surged  through  his  mind.  He  felt  no 
sorrow  for  the  dead,  and  strange  to  say,  very  little 
sympathy  for  the  girl.  Every  emotion  seemed  scat- 
tered. A  sense  of  suffocation  filled  his  being,  and 
he  had  the  illusion  that  both  of  them  were  alone. 
He  spoke,  saying  the  first  thing  that  came  into  his 
mind,  words  without  significance  or  meaning.  But 
when  he  released  the  girl's  hand,  sat  down  and 
looked  round,  he  saw  that  nobody  was  taking  any 
notice  of  him.  He  was  glad  and  tried  to  recall 
what  he  had  said  to  the  girl.  But  he  could  not 
remember. 

Owen  Briney  was  sitting  near  the  fire,  his  coat 
and  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  his  head  bare.  His 
hair,  turning  white  at  the  temples,  hung  so  low 
on  the  narrow  forehead,  that  only  the  eyebrows 
were  visible.  Owen  had,  from  the  moment  of 


246  Glenmornan 

Breed  Dermod's  death,  placed  himself  at  Sheila's 
disposal  and  ran  twice  to  the  village  on  errands. 
He  bought  the  tobacco  and  tea  and  carried  a  bag 
of  loaves  up  to  Stranameera  on  his  back,  running 
most  of  the  way  on  his  journey  home.  Never  had 
such  whole-hearted  zeal  been  shown  by  any  man. 
Now  he  was  sitting  by  the  fire  silent  as  a  fish;  his 
face  beaded  with  sweat,  his  eyes  continually  fol- 
lowing Sheila,  as  the  girl  moved  through  the  room. 
If  she  wanted  anything  done,  he  was  ready  to  help 
her. 

Doalty's  eyes  also  followed  the  girl,  watching 
her  every  motion  and  movement.  She  kept  very 
busy,  sorting  the  chairs,  welcoming  the  newcom- 
ers, giving  directions  to  those  who  were  helping 
her  in  the  house.  At  times  she  would  sit  down  by 
the  bed,  rub  her  temple  with  her  finger  as  if  trying 
to  steady  her  mind  to  thought.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment she  was  on  her  feet  again,  performing  some 
duty  which  she  had  forgotten.  Her  whole  bearing 
was  calculated  to  attract  attention.  Her  every  fea- 
ture showed  a  touch  of  self-reliance  that  in  no  way 
detracted  from  the  delicacy  and  grace  of  her  move- 
ments. Her  blue  eyes,  a  little  red  with  weeping, 
looked  soft  and  appealing  when  she  fixed  them  on 
Doalty.  Now  and  again  she  smiled  and  her  sad 
face  was  then  enlivened  as  with  a  ray  of  sunshine. 

Oiney,  continually  going  the  round  of  the  house 
with  pipes,  tobacco  and  snuff,  stopped  opposite 
Doalty  on  one  occasion  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"See  the  way  that  Owen  Briney,  the  toe-rag,  is 
havin'  his  eyes  on  Sheila." 


The  Wake  247 

"He  has  been  helping  her  all  day,  I  believe/'  said 
Doalty. 

"Catch  him  doin'  anything  for  nothing,"  snorted 
the  old  man.  "He  has  his  own  pot  on  the  fire." 

"In  what  way?"  asked  Doalty. 

"He  thinks  that  he'll  get  her  to  marry  him,  may- 
be," said  Oiney.  "He's  a  sly,  cute  fox,  Owen 
Briney." 

Doalty  tried  to  appear  amused  and  laughed  awk- 
wardly. But  the  thought  of  a  man  like  Owen  mar- 
rying Sheila  turned  him  sick  with  disgust. 

"He  won't  have  much  of  a  chance  with  Sheila," 
he  said. 

"Iv  course  not,"  said  Oiney.  -"She'll  never  let 
the  march  ditch  be  made  level  for  Owen  Briney  to 
cross  it.  ...  Ye're  not  goin'  to  try  a  pipe  this 
time,  are  ye?" 

When  Oiney  had  gone  the  round  of  the  wake,  he 
came  back  and  sat  by  the  side  of  Doalty. 

"Dennys  The  Drover  hasn't  come  back  from  the 
'fair  iv  Reemora  yet,"  said  the  old  man.  "He  took 
half  a  dozen  young  sturks  there  the  day.  But  the 
moment  he  comes  home  he'll  be  up  here  to  the  wake. 
pThen  Owen  Briney  will  sit  low.  Sheila  has  a  no- 
tion iv  Dennys,  ye  know." 

"Is  that  so?"  Doalty  enquired  lightly,  as  lightly 
as  he  could. 

-That's  so,"  said  the  old  man.  ?'And  Si  brave 
couple  they'll  make,  the  two  iv  them,  when  both 
settle  down  and  get  into  the  way  iv  workin'.  Den- 
nys doesn't  care  much  for  the  work  iv  the  fields  as 
yet.  But  he'll  soon  put  that  past  him.  I  was  the 


248  Glenmornan 

same  meself,  when  I  was  a  youngster.  .  .  ,  AH, 
young  fellows !"  he  added.  "It's  them  that  has  the 
time !  They're  always  on  the  rampage  and  roamin' 
and  cannot  stand  still.  The  only  way  that  Dennys 
can  rest  is  by  rollin'  about,  just  like  a  child  in  a 
cradle.  A  boy  with  no  control  over  himself,  he  has 
folly  in  his  feet.  He's  ready  to  go  in  for  anything, 
but  he's  not  willing  to  stick  it.  ...  But  yerself, 
Doalty,  is  a  very  quiet  boy  for  yer  years." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  asked  the  young  man  in  an 
absent  voice. 

Oiney  pinched  Doalty's  thigh  with  a  strong  fin- 
ger and  thumb. 

"Well  ye  look  quiet  anyway,  but  that  is  nothin' 
to  go  by,"  he  said.  "There  is  Owen  Briney  and 
he's  quiet  enough.  And  he's  after  Sheila  Dermod ! 
Oh!  the  old  plaisham.  And  what  d'ye  think  iv 
Sheila,  yerself,  Doalty?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  given  her  a  thought,"  said 
Doalty. 

"Get  away  widye,  Doalty,"  said  the  old  man, 
pressing  Doalty's  thigh  again.  He  had  not  wholly 
relaxed  the  grip  at  any  time.  "D'ye  think  an  old 
fellow  like  me  never  sees  anything  at  all?  What 
about  the  night  at  the  fair  when  ye  went  into  Heel- 
Ball's  with  her?  Eh,  now!" 

"Who  has  been  telling  you  this?"  enquired  Doal- 
ty gruffly. 

"Who,  but  Dennys  The  Drover,"  said  the  old 
man.  "He  had  a  great  laugh  over  it.  He  saw  that 
ye  had  a  notion  iv  Sheila,  so  he  let  ye  get  on  the 


The  Wake  249 

talk  with  her;  and  himself,  he  went  into  the  next 
room  with  Eileen  Kelly." 

"Dennys  has  a  notion  of  Eileen,"  said  Doalty, 
in  a  voice  of  apparent  indifference.  He  was  really 
trying  to  get  as  much  information  from  Oiney  as 
possible. 

"A  notion  iv  Eileen!"  laughed  Oiney.  "Ne'er  a 
fear.  He  just  went  with  her  for  a  bit  iv  fun  and  in 
a  fair  one  may  as  well  go  with  one  girsha  as  with 
another.  They're  all  out  for  the  fun." 

"Was  Sheila  out  for  fun  too?" 

"She  was  that  day,"  said  the  old  man ;  "but  after 
the  berryin'  she'll  be  out  for  somethin'  else,  and 
she'll  not  be  long  lookin'  for  what  she  wants.  No- 
body would  have  taken  the  girl  from  her  mother, 
God  rest  her,  when  she  was  alive.  Breed  was  a 
hard  woman  to  get  on  with,  but  now,  as  the  girl 
has  her  bit  iv  land,  and  no  man  to  work  it,  she'll 
be  glad  to  take  some  one  to  dig  the  fields  for  her." 

"And  do  you  think  that  Dennys  The  Drover 
will  ask  her  to  marry  him?"  asked  Doalty. 

"He  could  do  worse,"  said  Oiney.  "Worse  and 
far  worse." 

So  saying,  he  got  to  his  feet  again,  and  made  the 
rounds  of  the  house  with  the  pipes. 


ii 


By  this  time  the  young  people  were  playing  a 
game  called  "The  Silly  Old  Man."  A  number  of 
boys  and  girls  were  standing  in  a  circle  on  the  mid- 


250  Glenmornan 

die  of  the  floor;  boy  and  girl  about,  catching  one 
another's  hands.  Young  Micky  Neddy,  who  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  was  the  Silly  Old  Man 
for  the  time  being.  He  had  to  choose  a  woman 
from  the  circle  for  his  wife.  As  he  looked  at  the 
young  faces  the  boys  and  girls  sang  at  the  top  of 
their  voices: 

"He's  a  silly  old  man  that  lies  alone, 
That  lies  alone, 
In  bed  alone — 

A  silly  old  man  that  lies  alone, 
Wantin'  a  wife  but  can't  get  one." 

Micky  Neddy  chose  a  wife  from  the  ring,  and 
his  wife  was  Eileen  Kelly.  He  put  his  arm  round 
her  and  drew  her  into  his  side.  Oiney  Leahy,  his 
hat  well  back  on  his  head,  paused  for  a  moment, 
in  the  midst  of  his  pipe  distribution,  to  look  at  the 
fun.  The  boys  and  girls,  with  their  eyes  on  Mickx 
Neddy  and  Eileen  Kelly,  burst  into  song  again: 

"Now  young  couple  ye're  married  together, 
Married  together, 
And  bedded  together. 

From  this  day  on  ye  must  love  one  another — 
Obey  yer  father  as  well  as  yer  mother, 
And  live  in  peace  like  sister  and  brother." 

"That's  the  way  to  do  it,"  Oiney  laughed,  strok- 
ing his  white  beard  in  towards  his  throat.  "It's 
just  like  the  old  times." 

This  game  went  on  for  quite  half  an  hour,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  time  Micky  Neddy  had  chosen 
three  different  wives  and  got  married  to  each  of 


The  Wake  251 

them.  Even  old  Oiney,  not  to  be  outdone  when  fun 
was  going  on,  got  married  twice,  once  to  Norah 
Gallagher  and  again  to  a  girl  from  Meenawarawor 
by  the  name  of  Nancy  Parra  Wor  a  Crick  (Nancy 
the  daughter  of  Big  Patrick  of  the  Hill). 

One  game  followed  another.  The  next  was 
:"The  Priest  of  the  Parish,"  with  Oiney  Leahy  as 
the  priest.  He  sat  on  the  floor  and  placed  the 
young  men  in  a  row  on  either  side  of  him.  When 
all  had  settled  down,  Oiney  pointed  his  finger  at 
Micky  Neddy  and  said:  "Ye're  my  man,  Jack." 
Then  looking  at  the  other  players  he  said: 
"Choose  yer  caps." 

"I'm  Black  Cap,"  said  one. 

"And  yer  cap?"  asked  Oiney,  looking  at  an- 
other. 

"White  Cap,"  was  the  answer. 

"And  yer  cap?" 

"Green  Cap." 

Oiney  coughed,  when  all  the  men  had  chosen 
their  caps.  Then  he  spoke : 

"The  Priest  of  the  Parish  has  lost  his  consid- 
erin'  cap;  some  say  this,  and  some  say  that,  but  I 
say  my  man,  Jack." 

Micky  Neddy,  quick  after  Oiney's  words, 
shouted : 

"Is  it  me,  sir?" 

''Yes,  you,  sir." 

"Ye  lie,  sir." 

"Who  then,  sir?" 

"Black  Cap." 

"Is  it  me,  sir?"  Black  Cap,  who  happened  to  be 


252  Glenmornan 

Owen  Briney,  enquired,  and  the  same  series  of 
answers  and  questions  went  their  round  between 
the  two  men.  The  game  required  a  supple  tongue, 
for  the  man  who  was  unable  to  answer  to  a  cap 
before  the  priest  named  him  was  made  to  stand 
up  and  take  punishment.  He  stood  with  his  hand, 
palm  inwards,  on  his  hip,  and  the  priest  hit  him 
across  the  knuckles  with  a  stick.  After  such  a 
castigation  the  dilatory  man  became  the  Priest  of 
the  Parish.  Before  the  game  was  at  an  end  all  the 
knuckles  in  the  party  were  bleeding.  Meenawara- 
wor  was  very  severe  on  the  knuckles  of  Strana- 
meera,  but  when  it  came  to  Stranameera's  turn 
Meenawarawor  got  its  due  meed  of  punishment. 
The  fun  of  the  wake  was  in  full  swing  now. 
Oiney  Leahy,  his  priesthood  at  an  end,  was  sitting 
in  a  corner  with  pipe  aflare,  telling  a  story  of  the 
old  times,  of  the  years  far  back,  when  there  was  no 
burial  ground  in  Greenanore,  and  when  the  dead 
had  to  be  put  under  earth  ten  miles  from  where 
Oiney  was  now  sitting  and  twenty  miles  from 
Meenaroody,  a  townland  at  the  butt-end  of  the 
parish.  One  snowy  mid-winter,  a  Meenaroody  man 
died,  and  he  had  to  be  carried  over  hill  and  holm, 
twenty  miles,  to  the  graveyard.  The  coffin  left 
Meenaroody  at  night;  Oiney  Leahy  was  one  of  the 
bearers.  It  was  a  raw  journey  in  the  snow,  and 
when  the  coffin  came  to  Meenawarawor  the  men 
left  it  on  the  roadside  and  went  to  Hudagh  Ree- 
dagh's  house  for  a  drink  of  potheen.  Hudagh 
(dead,  twenty  years,  come  Candlemas  next)  had 
a  still  going  on  the  hills  day  and  night.  The  men 


The  Wake  253 

went  there  and  got  well  tight.  Meantime  the  cof- 
fin lay  on  the  roadside,  with  the  snow  falling  all 
over  it,  for  the  night  was  a  wild  one  entirely.  It 
was  when  the  men  were  drunk,  and  when  every, 
one  was  full  of  his  own  worth,  that  somebody  re- 
marked that  no  one  had  the  courage  to  go  alone 
and  have  a  look  at  the  coffin.  Oiney  said  that  he 
would  go,  for  he  was  not  afraid  of  anything.  The 
other  men  of  the  party  laughed  at  him,  but  Oiney 
got  hold  of  an  ash-plant  from  behind  the  rafter  of 
Hudagh  Reedagh's  home,  and  went  to  visit  the 
coffin,  all  on  his  lone.  "If  the  divil  from  hell's 
there  I  don't  care,"  Oiney  said,  making  his  way  out 
into  the  darkness. 

When  he  came  to  the  coffin,  there  was  something 
there  waiting  for  him,  something  white  as  a  ghost, 
that  tried  to  hit  Oiney  with  its  horns.  As  the 
strange  thing  rushed  at  him,  Oiney  stepped  back 
a  pace,  to  get  the  swing  of  his  arm  behind  the  blow 
and  hit  the  ghost  right  between  the  eyes  with  the 
ash-plant.  Then  he  turned  and  ran  back  to  his 
friends.  "And  in  the  mornin',"  Oiney  concluded, 
"there  was  a  dead  ram  lyin'  across  the  coffin." 

Near  the  door  a  Meenawarawor  man,  rugous 
and  big-boned,  was  playing  hard  knuckles  with 
Micky  Neddy,  whose  fern-tickled  face  was  beaded 
with  sweat,  and  whose  hair  stood  out  in  wisps  un- 
der his  cap.  The  two  were  hitting  one  another's 
knuckles  turn  about,  their  fists  all  covered  with 
blood.  The  last  man  to  hit  would  be  the  man  to 
win,  and  one  townland  was  loth  to  give  in  to  the 
other  townland.  The  onlookers  were  betting  on 


254  Glenmornan 

the  result  of  the  contest,  while  the  two  men,  look- 
ing very  sorry  for  themselves,  continued  the  brutal 
game. 

Sheila  Dermod,  weary  after  many  nights*  watch- 
ing over  her  sick  mother,  was  now  asleep,  sitting 
on  the  stool  by  the  bed,  her  head  back  against  the 
blankets,  her  full  throat  and  lovely  face  showing. 
Doalty,  looking  at  her,  suddenly  detected  in  her 
face  a  striking  resemblance  to  her  dead  mother. 
In  what  the  likeness  consisted,  Doalty  could  not 
determine.  How  could  there  be  any  similarity  be- 
tween the  two  faces  ?  They  were  so  different.  He 
recollected  Breed  Dermod's  expression  when  she 
came  down  to  see  him  a  few  days  earlier ;  the  sunk- 
en eyes  and  mouth,  the  wrinkles  raying  out  from 
the  corners  of  her  eyes  like  a  fan,  the  skin  drawn 
tightly  in  across  the  cheek-bones.  .  .  .  But  how 
could  there  be  any  similarity  between  faces  so  es- 
sentially different,  between  the  blue-eyed,  soft-com- 
plexioned  Sheila  and  the  hard-featured,  scowling 
mother?  But  despite  all  that  Doalty  could  urge  to 
the  contrary,  there  was  an  inexplicable  likeness, 
Jan  unmistakable  family  look. 

-"It  cannot  be,"  Doalty  thought,  speaking  to  him- 
self in  disjointed  words.  "It  does  not  matter  how 
many  years.  .  .  .  There's  not  a  scowl  in  the  big 
blue  eyes  .  .  .  steady  and  clear,  but  not  menac- 
ing." 

Another  man  looked  on  Sheila  at  intervals,  and 
£rom  Sheila,  his  eyes  would  turn  to  Doalty  Galla- 
gher. And  Doalty  noticed  the  expression  on  this 
man's  face.  There  was  a  look  of  greed  all  over  it. 


The  Wake  255 

A  similar  expression  showed  on  the  face  of  the 
man  when  he  was  trying  to  make  a  bargain  with 
Crania  Coolin  at  the  fair  of  Greenanore.  The  man 
was  Owen  Briney. 

Oiney  Leahy  looked  at  the  sleeping  girl,  then 
round  at  the  assembled  company.  "Many  a  man 
would  marry  that  girl  for  her  face  alone,"  he  said. 


in 


It  was  now  time  to  say  the  Rosary.  Oiney 
Leahy  knelt  on  the  floor,  first  taking  care  to  put 
his  old  battered  hat  under  his  knees. 

"Now,  boys,  on  yer  knees  for  the  Paidreen,"  he 
said.  The  household  knelt  down  in  a  body.  Micky 
Neddy  and  the  Meenawarawor  man  stopped  their 
game  of  hard  knuckles,  glad  of  the  respite.  Sheila 
Dermod  woke  up.  Maura  The  Rosses  and  Grania 
Coolin,  kneeling  by  the  fire,  kept  their  eyes  fixed 
on  the  pot  of  tea.  Supper  would  be  served  when 
the  Rosary  came  to  an  end. 

Oiney  gave  out  the  prayers  in  Irish.  Responses 
were  made  in  that  language  by  the  old  and  in  Eng- 
lish by  the  young  people  of  twenty  or  thereabouts. 
pThe  children  from  the  school  answered  in  Irish, 
now  a  compulsory  language  in  its  own  country. 

Fifteen  decades  of  the  Rosary  were  given  out 
and  then  prayers  were  said  for  all  who  were  dead. 
Oiney  gave  a  short  introduction  to  this  prayer, 
speaking  in  a  low  voice  that  was  deep  and  tender, 
while  all  the  household  listened  in  silence. 


256  Glenmornan 

"One  Pater  and  Ave  for  the  suffering  souls  in 
Purgatory,"  said  the  old  man.  "Especially  for 
fathers,  mothers,  brothers,  sisters,  neighbours, 
near  and  far,  friends  and  enemies  and  all  who  have 
gone  away  from  the  world,  that  they  may  be  re- 
leased from  their  torments  and  taken  to  God,  their 
Father  in  Heaven.  Amen." 

After  prayers  and  before  supper  was  served  to 
the  crowd,  Doalty  rose  and  went  out,  with  the  in- 
tention of  going  home.  Sheila  Dermod  followed 
him  and  overtook  him  in  the  park  that  stretched 
down  the  brae  from  the  door. 

"Ye're  not  goin'  home  now,  Doalty,  are  ye?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh!  I  think  I'll  go,  Sheila,"  he  replied,  looking 
at  the  girl.  "There  are  plenty  inside  to  keep  watch 
all  night." 

"But  ye  should  stay,  Doalty,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  was  almost  supplicating.  She  looked  up  at 
Doalty  and  in  the  darkness  the  young  man  fancied 
that  he  could  see  a  tender  beseeching  look  in  her 
blue  eyes.  With  an  involuntary  movement  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  caught  hers. 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  Sheila,"  he  said.  "Be- 
ing left  all  by  yourself,  up  here  on  the  brae.  Death 
is  very  sad." 

"Ah !  well,  it  had  to  be,"  said  the  girl  in  a  voice 
of  resignation.  "Every  one  has  to  die  when  it 
comes  to  their  time." 

She  pressed  his  hand  warmly  as  she  spoke,  and 
looked  at  the  ground,  but  did  not  release  her  hold. 

Presently  she  spoke  again. 


The  Wake  257 

"Ye're  comin'  in  to  have  somethin'  to  ate  any- 
way, aren't  ye?"  she  asked.  "Ye're  not  goin'  away, 
without  havin'  a  bite  and  ye've  not  ate  anything 
now  since  six  o'clock  this  evenin',  maybe." 

"But,  Sheila,  you  have  trouble  enough  in  the 
house  not  to  bother  about  me,"  said  Doalty.  "I 
did  not  think  that  you  would  care  for  my  company 
after  what  has  passed  between  us.  You  remember 
.  .  .  and  you  were  so  angry  with  me.  .  .  ." 

"Who  said  that  I  was  angry?"  Sheila  enquired, 
separating  Doalty 's  fingers,  one  from  another,  with 
her  hand. 

"Nobody;  but  I  thought  you  were,"  Doalty  re- 
plied. "And  you  weren't  angry?"  he  enquired, 
drawing  the  young  girl  towards  him. 

"I  wasn't  angry,"  said  the  girl.  "But  ye  were 
so  strange  and  not  like  other  boys  that  ye  made  me 
afeeard." 

She  spoke  in  a  whisper  and  the  hand  that  held 
Doalty's  quivered  like  a  leaf. 

"But  now,  you're  not  afraid,  Sheila !"  said  Doal- 
ty in  a  passionate  voice.  "If  I  asked  you  now  .  .  . 
you  would  .  .  .  wouldn't  you,  Sheila?" 

"Doalty  Gallagher!" 

"All  right,  Sheila.  ...  I'm  sorry.  ...  Is  the 
supper  ready  yet?" 

The  two  went  into  the  house  together,  passing 
Owen  Briney,  who  had  come  out  to  the  door  to  see 
if  the  weather  showed  any  signs  of  breaking. 
There  were  heavy  clouds  on  Sliav  a  Tuagh  that 
afternoon,  a  bad  sign.  So  Owen  informed  Sheila, 


258  Glenmornan 

but  all  through  the  evening,  up  till  now,  he  had 
not  shown  the  least  interest  in  the  weather. 

Doalty  Gallagher  did  not  leave  the  house  of  the 
wake  till  the  next  morning.  All  Stranameera 
stopped  till  dawn,  knowing  that  it  could  sleep  all 
day.  But  Meenawarawor  went  home  after  sup- 
per, for  with  good  weather  and  no  wakes,  they 
could  make  a  speedy  finish  to  their  harvest. 


IV 

The  weather  continued  dry  and  warm  and  the 
workers  on  the  far  side  of  the  glen  made  great 
progress  with  their  hay.  Stranameera,  held  up  by 
Breed  Dermod's  death,  was  pleased  when  the  bury- 
ing day  came  round.  Six  deep,  under  her  coffin, 
the  men  carried  her  down  the  glen  road  on  their 
shoulders,  sweating  as  they  walked.  Breed,  big  of 
bone  and  build,  was  not  an  easy  burden  on  the  hot- 
test day  that  Glenmornan  ever  knew.  Oiney  Leahy, 
front  bearer  on  the  right  of  the  coffin,  with  his 
coat  and  hat  off  and  his  pipe  in  his  pocket,  grunted 
wearily  as  he  walked.  Other  men  took  turns  at  the 
bearing,  but  Oiney  would  not  allow  any  man  into 
his  place.  Seeing  it  was  the  last  journey  of  Breed 
Dermod,  God  rest  her !  down  the  glen  road,  he  was 
going  to  carry  her  all  the  way.  This  generous 
thought  did  not  prevent  him,  however,  from  say- 
ing when  the  churchyard  was  sighted :  "Thanks  be 
to  God  that  we're  near  there,  now !" 

They  buried  Breed  in  the  grave  where  her  hus- 


The  Wake  259 

band,  who  also  died  on  a  harvest-day,  was  laid  to 
rest.  Father  Devaney,  a  well-preserved  priest,  de- 
spite his  years,  with  shiny,  bald  head  and  oily  face, 
read  the  offices  over  the  dead  woman  and  counted 
the  offerings  after  the  burial.  The  glen  people  had 
paid  well  and  a  sum  of  nine  pounds,  eighteen  and 
sixpence  was  collected.  The  priest  counted  the 
offerings,  put  the  money  in  a  large  cloth  bag  and 
handed  it  to  Micky  Neddy. 

"Run  away  with  this,  Micky,"  he  said,  "and  put 
it  in  the  car  be  the  gate  for  me."  A  jaunting  car 
stood  by  the  entrance  of  the  churchyard,  waiting 
to  take  the  priest  back  to  his  residence. 

On  his  way  out,  Father  Devaney  overtook  Doal- 
ty  Gallagher,  who  had  been  one  of  the  bearers  at 
the  funeral. 

"Good  day,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  said  the  priest, 
with  an  air  of  jollity,  stretching  out  his  hand  to- 
wards the  young  man.  "I  haven't  been  speakin'  to 
ye  since  ye've  come  home  at  all.  And  ye've  grown 
big  since  ye  went  away!" 

"Well,  I've  had  plenty  of  time  to  grow,"  said 
Doalty,  taking  no  notice  of  the  outstretched  hand. 

"Ye  have  grown  in  more  ways  than  one,"  said 
Father  Devaney,  dropping  his  hand  to  his  side  as 
he  noticed  the  acrid  and  savage  disdain  of  the 
young  man's  voice.  "Ye've  grown  to  learn  things 
abroad,  Doalty — things  that  are  not  good  for  ye. 
A  lot  of  the  young  fellows  who  go  away,  come 
back  just  like  yerself,  but  they'll  learn  better  as  they 
grow  older." 

"If  people  grow  older  in  the  way  that  I'm  grow- 


260  Glenmornan 

ing  old  they'd  damned  soon  get  rid  of  gross,  self- 
satisfied  creatures  like  you,  Devaney,"  said  Doalty 
in  a  voice  hoarse  with  anger.  He  spoke,  almost, 
as  if  he  had  been  rehearsing  for  the  scene,  as  in- 
deed he  had,  for  often,  when  abroad,  he  thought  of 
Father  Devaney  and  had  a  certain  grim  satisfac- 
tion in  an  imaginary  condemnation  of  the  man. 
"As  people  get  more  educated  it  will  be  found  that 
men  like  you  will  be  the  means  of  driving  Catho- 
licity from  the  country." 

"Quiet  now,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  said  Father 
Devaney,  with  an  authoritative  wave  of  his  hand, 
speaking  with  the  air  of  a  man,  sure  of  his  power, 
who  was  unwilling  to  enter  into  argument  in  de- 
fence of  his  own  behaviour.  "Quiet  now,  me  boy, 
and  don't  be  speakin'  things  that  ye'll  be  sorry  for 
afterwards." 

Doalty  knew  that  words  were  futile  against  the 
smug,  self-possessed  priest.  He  was  an  over-fed, 
blatant  tyrant  whom  the  people  obeyed  like  sheep ! 
Poor  people,  poor,  silly,  stupid  people! 

At  that  moment  Doalty  saw  Maura  The  Rosses 
coming,  and  without  another  word  he  gave  the 
priest  one  look  of  killing  scorn,  turned  on  his  heel 
and  left  him.  All  that  he  had  said  seemed  to 
Doalty  to  have  been  flat  and  hateful.  This  feeling 
increased  as  the  distance  between  himself  and  the 
priest  lengthened.  He  was  annoyed  with  himself, 
bit  his  lips  and  cursed  at  the  awkwardness  with 
which  he  had  dealt  with  Devaney.  He  should 
have  knocked  the  man  down,  he  reasoned.  Even 


The  Wake  261 

his  years  should  not  have  saved  him  from  chastise- 
ment. 

"He's  afraid  of  his  mother,  anyway,  and  that's 
a  good  sign,"  thought  the  priest  as  Doalty  walked 
away. 

Maura  The  Rosses  came  up  and  bowed  almost  to 
the  ground  in  front  of  the  clergyman.  The  priest 
did  not  return  the  salute.  Instead  he  fixed  a  stern 
eye  on  the  woman. 

"Maura  The  Rosses,  I've  been  talkin'  to  that 
boy  iv  yours,"  he  said  in  a  severe  voice.  "I'm 
afraid  that  he  has  forgot  the  teachin'  that  was 
given  to  him,  when  he  was  a  youngster  in  the 
glen.  .  .  .  He  spoke  to  me  just  the  same  as  if  I 
wasn't  his  parish  priest." 

"But  he's  been  so  long  abroad,  father,  that  he 
has  maybe  lost  mind  iv  a  lot  of  things,"  said  the 
woman  in  an  endeavour  to  placate  the  man.  "If 
he  stays  here  for  a  while  he'll  just  be  like  any  iv  the 
others  in  the  glen.  Don't  fault  him,  father,  for  he's 
only  a  young  gasair  yet." 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  Maura  The  Rosses,  but  from 
the  look  iv  things  I  think  ...  no,  I  don't  think  it, 
but  I'm  sure  iv  it,  that  your  boy  has  wandered 
away  from  the  old  faith.  And  ye  know  what  that 
manes !"  he  said  in  a  stern  voice. 

"Don't  say  that,  father,"  Maura  The  Rosses  en- 
treated. "He  may  be  like  that  at  times,  but  he'll 
soon  grow  past  it.  Maybe  if  ye  spoke  to  him  yer- 
self,  father,  he  would  take  heed  iv  what  ye'd  tell 
him.  ...  I  can't  do  much  for  him,  bar  say  a 


262  Glenmornan 

prayer  for  him  be  night  and  put  some  holy  water 
under  his  pillow  before  he  goes  to  bed." 

"Oh,  that's  no  good  for  the  like  iv  him,  Maura 
The  Rosses,"  said  the  priest.  "It  would  be  the  best 
thing  for  the  parish  if  he  was  sent  back  to  where 
he  came  from.  Then  he  couldn't  give  scandal  to 
yerself  and  to  the  young  iv  the  glen." 

"But  maybe  if  he  goes  to  yerself,  father,"  fal- 
tered Maura  The  Rosses,  whose  dread  of  the  priest 
was  much  stronger  than  her  desire  for  Doalty's 
salvation. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  priest.  "I'll  have  nothin' 
to  do  with  him.  Let  him  go  his  own  way.  He's 
young  and  headstrong,  but  one  day  .  .  ." — the 
priest  shook  his  head — "and  it  may  be  too  late 
then,"  he  added. 

With  these  words  he  got  up  on  the  car  and 
looked  in  the  well  of  the  vehicle  to  see  if  the  bag 
of  money  was  safe.  This  was  done,  more  through 
force  of  habit  than  from  fear  that  any  one  would 
be  so  rash  as  to  lay  hands  on  the  offerings  over  the 
dead.  Money  was  not  in  the  priest's  mind  at  that 
moment,  all  the  old  man's  thoughts  were  on  Doalty 
Gallagher,  and  he  was  forming  schemes  of  revenge 
against  the  youth. 

Devaney  was  a  covetous  and  crafty  man,  hold- 
ing unlimited  control  of  his  flock.  Though  the 
peasantry  did  not  love  him,  they  feared  him  and 
he  played  on  that  fear.  The  poor  were  his  legiti- 
mate prey,  and  not  a  soul  in  the  parish  dared  gain- 
say his  wishes  or  disobey  his  commands.  He  kept 
the  parish  under  his  thumb. 


The  Wake  263 

For  all  that,  he  was  afraid  of  Doalty  Gallagher 
and  of  any  man  who  might  speak  to  him  as  Doalty 
had  spoken.  And  he  had  reason,  for  it  happened 
once  that  a  young  man,  named  Reelan,  who  had 
been  abroad,  returned  to  Greenanore  and  opened 
a  grocer's  shop  in  the  village.  Reelan's  mother 
was  a  very  poor  woman,  and  when  the  priest  was 
building  his  new  house  this  woman  was  unable  to 
pay  all  the  dues.  Devaney  remarked  on  this  event 
several  times  from  the  altar,  holding  the  woman 
up  to  ridicule  and  contempt.  When  young  Reelan 
came  home  and  heard  of  this,  he  was  very  angry 
and  went  and  saw  Devaney  about  the  matter.  Dur- 
ing the  interview  he  lost  his  temper  and  knocked 
the  priest  down.  For  this  Devaney  had  his  re- 
venge. He  spoke  about  the  affair  from  the  altar, 
pointing  out  the  evil  of  which  the  young  man,  who 
had  struck  his  own  priest,  was  guilty.  Needless 
to  say,  the  peasantry  were  indignant ;  the  villagers 
would  not  speak  to  the  young  man  afterwards  and 
the  women  of  the  parish  would  not  buy  at  his  shop. 
In  the  end  Reelan  had  to  close  up  his  business  and 
leave  the  parish.  "I'll  treat  Doalty  Gallagher  the 
same  as  I  have  treated  Reelan,"  muttered  the 
priest,  as  he  made  his  way  homewards.  "I'll  show 
him  what  it  is  to  speak  back  to  his  priest.  But  it's 
better  not  to  anger  him  as  yet,  maybe,"  he  added  as 
he  recalled  the  incident  in  which  Reelan  had  figured 
some  years  previously. 

When  Devaney  came  off  the  car  and  entered  his 
home  he  forgot  to  take  his  money  bag  with  him. 
The  jarvey  who  had  driven  the  priest  to  all  the 


264  Glenmornan 

funerals  in  the  parish  for  years  had  never  known 
Devaney  to  forget  the  offerings  before. 

"I  suppose  it's  because  he  is  growin'  old  that  he's 
forgettin'  things,"  said  the  jarvey,  as  he  followed 
the  priest  into  the  house  with  the  bag  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   FLOOD 

It's  poor  washing  for  a  woman  when  there  isn't  a  shirt  in 
the  tub. — A  Glentnornan  Proverb. 


DAY  after  day  passed  by  and  the  weather 
kept  up.  Never  had  Glenmornan  known 
such  heat,  and  never  had  the  hay  dried 
so  quickly.  On  all  the  spread  of  bottomland,  bound- 
ing the  Owenawadda,  the  trampcocks  were  rising" 
brown  over  the  after-grass.  The  peasantry  worked 
hard,  busy  at  their  toil  day  and  night,  the  odour 
of  drying  hay  in  their  nostrils,  the  rustle  of  waving 
corn  in  their  ears.  In  the  clear  moonlight,  when 
dews  fell  thickly  and  mists  rose  from  the  pores  of 
the  land,  the  swish  of  the  reaper's  scythes  could  be 
heard  between  dusk  and  dawn.  In  the  morning 
the  fields  were  ribbed  with  straight  new  swards. 
In  the  hot  sun  the  grass  dried  quickly ;  the  hay  had 
merely  to  be  cut  and  it  was  saved. 

Doalty  and  his  brother  Teague  worked  at  the 
mowing,  making  great  headway.    The  neighbours 
marvelled  at  the  young  man  who  could  keep  at  his 
265 


266  Glenmornan 

work  so  steadily  and  now  they  were  of  opinion  that 
Doalty  was  really  going  to  remain  at  home,  and 
work  on  the  farm  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  On  real- 
ising this,  they  shook  their  heads  in  a  knowing  way. 
"There's  something  in  it,"  they  told  one  another. 
"A  boy  comin'  home  here  and  workin'  just  like  one 
of  ourselves,  when  he  has  the  learnin',  and  can 
make  money  and  to  spare  abroad,  is  ...  well, 
there's  more  in  it  than  meets  the  eye."  The  shop- 
boy,  who  put  on  airs  they  disliked,  Doalty,  who  was 
humility  itself,  they  distrusted. 

"And  ye're  never  goin'  away  at  all  any  more?" 
Eileen  Kelly  asked  him  one  day  as  she  met  him  on 
the  road. 

"Well,  it  doesn't  look  like  it,  does  it?"  was  Doal- 
ty's  reply. 

Eileen  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  curled  her 
three-cornered  lips  in  a  pert  grimace. 

"Stayin'  here,  when  ye  could  be  away  out  in  the 
world,"  she  said  deprecatingly.  "Ye've  never  set 
eyes  on  a  place  as  backwardlike  as  this,  I'll  go 
bail." 

"It's  a  most  lovely  place,  Eileen,"  Doalty  re- 
plied. "The  hills,  and  the  meadows,  and  the 
streams,  and  the  people.  You  like  the  hills, 
Eileen,  don't  you?"  he  asked  her. 

"I  hate  them,"  the  girl  replied.  "Always  the 
same  and  never  any  change!  They  are  so  ugly! 
I  suppose  yerself  thinks  that  they  are  very  nice  be- 
cause ye've  been  away  and  seen  other  places.  But 
I've  always  been  at  home  here,  and  I've  never  seen 
anywhere  else.  .  .  .  Maybe  if  I  was  away  I  would 


The  Flood  267 

like  this  place  to  come  back  to,  if  it  was  only  for  a 
holiday." 

Doalty  continued  writing  the  articles  on  Glen- 
mornan  in  his  spare  time.  The  editor  of  the  Lon- 
don paper  was  quite  pleased  with  them  and  used  a 
I  series.  Then  other  papers  published  further  con- 
|tributions  and  Doalty  got  rid  of  his  stuff  easily. 
,He  gave  the  money  sent  from  London  to  his 
'mother,  but  she  showed  no  signs  of  slating  her 
house  now.  Doalty  spoke  to  her  about  the  matter. 

"Well,  the  thatch  will  do  for  a  couple  iv  years 
more,"  she  said,  "so  I'll  put  the  few  ha'pence  by." 

This  really  meant  that  since  her  next  door  neigh- 
bours were  not  slating  their  houses,  she  had  no 
need  to  slate  hers.  Maura  was  now  a  great  friend 
of  Sheila  Dermod,  and  called  on  the  young  girl 
daily,  helping  her  at  her  work.  All  the  neighbours 
took  a  kind  interest  in  the  girl's  welfare;  the  boys 
of  the  townland  helped  her  at  the  hay-making  and 
turf-saving,  and  Owen  Briney  was  not  last  in  lend- 
ing her  a  hand.  At  this  time  an  aunt  of  hers,  Anna 
Ruagh  of  Meenaroodagh,  whose  husband  was 
!away  abroad  at  the  harvesting,  came  to  live  with 
Sheila  and  help  her  to  keep  house.  The  girl  also 
engaged  a  servant  boy,  named  Murtagh  Roonagh, 
blood  relation,  but  far  out,  of  Oiney  Leahy,  and 
Oiney  saw  that  this  boy  did  fair  and  honest  labour 
for  his  wages. 

One  thing  however  was  certain  and  that  was 
this.  Sheila  would  have  to  get  married  presently. 
A  man  was  needed  to  run  the  bit  of  land,  and  as 
the  girl  was  left  all  alone,  it  would  not  be  a  sin  on 


268  Glenmornan 

her  part  to  get  married  as  soon  as  possible,  after, 
her  mother's  death.  There  were  plenty  of  young 
fellows  going  about,  who  would  be  glad  to  bespeak 
the  girl's  hand.  They  were  all  mad  after  her,  and 
now  that  Breed  was  dead,  the  lucky  young  man 
would  have  Sheila's  farm  to  go  into  on  the  day  of 
his  marriage  to  the  beautiful  girl. 

Doalty  spoke  to  Sheila  several  times.  When 
coming  in  from  the  mowing  in  the  evening,  he 
would  call  to  her  across  the  ditch. 

"Good  evening,  Sheila,"  he  would  say.  "Still 
working  away." 

"Always  working"  she  would  answer  in  a  quiet 
voice,  as  if  she  had  resigned  herself  to  a  future 
which  showed  clear  in  front  of  her.  Now  and 
again,  when  Doalty  spoke  to  her,  an  expression 
of  embarrassment  would  flit  across  her  features. 
She  would  smile  awkwardly,  apparently  not  at  any- 
thing which  the  young  man  had  said,  but  at  some 
thought  which  his  remark  brought  up  in  her  mind. 
Her  big  blue  eyes  never  looked  straight  at  Doalty 
now  when  she  spoke  to  him.  Instead  her  eyelids 
would  sink  down,  as  if  the  girl  were  abashed  and 
shamed  of  something  which  was  only  known  to 
herself.  Doalty,  for  some  reason,  felt  very  sorry 
for  the  girl  and  with  the  sorrow  came  a  sense  of 
isolation.  As  day  and  day  passed,  he  felt  further 
and  further  removed  from  the  girl.  Some  great 
barrier  seemed  to  be  rising  up  between  the  two  of 
them,  but  what  the  barrier  was  the  young  man 
could  not  determine. 


The  Flood  269 


ii 

One  afternoon  Doalty  had  a  conversation  with 
her.  She  was  sitting  by  the  River  Owenawadda 
at  a  point  where  the  Dermod  Farm  jutted  out,  into 
the  stream.  The  day  was  very  warm,  but  a  cold 
breath  rose  from  the  river  and  fanned  the  young 
man's  face  as  he  sat  on  the  bank  beside  the  girl. 
The  water  beneath  them  was  still  and  clear.  Un- 
der the  shadow  of  the  bank  a  big  trout,  facing  the 
run  of  the  stream,  was  waving  its  fins  lazily.  Doal- 
ty looked  at  Sheila's  reflection  in  the  water  and  he 
could  see  her  form  as  distinctly  as  if  she  were  look- 
ing into  a  glass.  The  girl  was  leaning  forward, 
her  hair  falling  over  her  shoulders,  her  feet  touch- 
ing the  water.  As  the  ripples,  raised  by  the  water- 
spiders,  swept  across  the  girl's  reflection,  her  hair 
waved  outwards,  as  if  caught  by  a  gentle  breeze. 
For  a  long  while  Doalty  gazed  at  the  likeness  in 
the  water  without  speaking. 

"What  are  ye  thinkin'  about,  Doalty  Galla- 
gher?" asked  Sheila  suddenly,  fixing  her  eyes  on 
the  young  man. 

"Thinking  about!"  said  Doalty,  as  if  consider- 
ing the  question.  He  knew  what  the  true  answer 
would  be,  if  he  had  the  courage  to  speak  it.  "Think- 
ing about,  Sheila?  .  .  .  It's  about  you,  always 
about  you." 

"About  me,  Doalty  Gallagher?"  asked  the  girl, 
with  an  earnest  look  as  if  she  had  never  heard  him 
make  such  a  confession  before. 


270  Glenmornan 

"Yes,  about  you,  Sheila.  I  think  of  you  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  when  I  get  up  and  the  last 
thing  at  night.  You  remember  the  time  I  kissed 
you,  do  you  not,  Sheila?" 

"Ye're  always  thinkin'  about  that,"  said  the  girl. 
"Do  you  ever  think  about  the  other  girls  that  ye've 
kissed  when  I  didn't  see  ye?" 

She  laughed  as  she  spoke,  and  plucking  a  flower 
from  the  grass  by  her  side,  she  threw  it  into  the 
water. 

"A  throut  will  maybe  rise  to  that,"  she  said. 
"Do  ye  think  that  one  will,  Doalty?" 

"Be  sensible,  Sheila,"  he  said  impatiently. 
"When  I  want  to  speak  of  one  thing,  you  always 
turn  to  something  else." 

"But  have  ye  ever  been  kissin'  the  girls  abroad  ?" 
Sheila  enquired  mischievously. 

"No,  no,"  Doalty  hastened  to  assure  her.  "But 
why  do  you  enquire?" 

"I'm  just  only  askin',"  said  the  girl.  "But  ye  are 
tellin'  me  the  truth,  aren't  ye  now?" 

"It's  quite  true,  Sheila." 

"Cross  on  yer  neck  then,"  said  the  girl  in  a  voice 
of  mock-command. 

Doalty  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  with  his  fore- 
finger. 

"Now,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head  and  looking 
at  her  under  his  brows.  His  word  seemed  to  chal- 
lenge her  to  further  remarks. 

"Well,  it's  time  to  be  getthv  on  with  the  hay 
now,  I  think,"  said  Sheila  rising  to  her  feet  and 


The  Flood  271 

walking  backwards.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Doalty,  as  she  edged  away  from  him. 

"But  not  yet,  Sheila,"  he  entreated,  also  get- 
ting up.  "Don't  run  away  like  that.  Just  a  min- 
ute. ...  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"Ye've  always  somethin'  to  say,"  said  the  girl 
in  a  hesitating  voice.  "But  ye  never  say  any- 
thing. ...  I  must  get  to  the  hay  anyway,  for  it's 
ready  for  the  han'cocks." 

With  these  words,  she  turned  round,  and  ran  off 
towards  the  road. 

Doalty  went  back  to  the  holm  where  the  hay  was* 
scattered  broadcast  over  the  ground.  In  case  of 
floods  coming,  it  would  be  well  to  heap  it  up  now 
that  it  was  almost  dry.  But  his  thoughts  were  not 
on  the  hay  as  he  walked.  He  was  thinking  of 
Sheila. 

"How  empty  and  dull  everything  seems,"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "I  have  been  in  Glenmornan 
now  for  quite  a  long  time  and  what  have  I  done? 
I  have  fallen  in  love,  and  I  say  meaningless  things 
to  that  girl.  She  doesn't  understand  them,  and  no 
doubt  she  thinks  that  I  am  a  fool.  What  silly 
things  I've  been  saying  to  her  and  then  she  tells 
me  that  I  never  say  anything.  One  hour  after 
another  passes  and  nothing  is  done.  But  what  can 
be  done?  .  .  .  Suppose  I  went  and  asked  her  to 
marry  me  what  would  she  say?  I  would  marry 
her  to-morrow  if  she  took  me.  .  .  .  But  maybe 
she'd  refuse.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  the  girl  working  in  the  hay-field, 
her  whole  attention  concentrated  on  her  labour. 


272  Glenmornan 

She  wore  a  red-speckled  handkerchief  on  her  head, 
and  her  long  tresses  hung  down  over  her  shoul- 
ders, almost  reaching  her  waist.  She  lifted  the 
hay  in  her  arms  piling  it  on  the  han'cocks,  and 
never  once  looked  towards  Doalty. 

"She  doesn't  care,"  he  said  sadly.  "She  doesn't 
know  what  love  is.  Her  heart  is  not  for  me  and 
not,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  for  any  other  person. 
She's  a  strange  girl." 


in 


The  weather  broke  two  days  later,  at  noon.  All 
morning  the  mists  lay  thickly  on  Carnaween,  but 
it  remained  close  and  dry  down  in  Glenmornan 
and  no  rain  had  fallen  by  the  turn  of  the  day. 

"It  will  be  rainin'  here  in  a  wee  minute,"  said 
Maura  The  Rosses  to  Doalty,  at  noon.  Both  were 
standing  behind  the  hedge,  Doalty  wedging  a  rake- 
head  on  to  its  haft,  Maura  The  Rosses  knitting  a 
stocking.  The  mid-day  meal  had  just  come  to  an 
end.  "It's  too  meltin'  warm  to  stay  like  this  for 
long,"  the  woman  continued,  "but  I  hope  when  it 
comes  it's  not  too  hard  on  the  hay.  .  .  .  And 
there's  old  Oiney  down  be  the  river  pullin'  the 
han'cocks  back  from  the  brough.  .  .  .  And  he  has 
a  new  flannel  shirt  on,  too.  Now,  when  did  he  get 
it  at  all?  ...  There's  Sheila  Dermod  goin'  out 
with  her  cow  and  calk  to  the  grazin'.  An  ould 
ranny  iv  an  animal,  it,  and  no  good  for  the  milk- 
in'.  .  .  .  It's  a  wonder  that  Dennys  The  Drover 


The  Flood  273 

is  not  gettin'  married  to  Sheila.  She's  a  good,  hard 
worker,  when  all's  said  and  done,  and  it's  not  a  bad 
match,  for  the  two  farms  are  just  about  the  same 
size  and  rent.  There's  the  rain  now  and  it  will  be 
heavens  hard  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  a  violent  storm  broke  and 
the  rain  came  in  torrents.  The  streams  from  the 
uplands  becoming  swollen,  rushed  down  with  vio- 
lence and  burst  their  bounds.  Reeling  over  the 
rocks,  with  a  noise  like  thunder,  they  set  all  the 
echoes  going  on  the  hills,  and  dragging  out  the 
bushes  from  the  ravines,  they  flung  them  broad- 
cast over  the  brae- faces.  The  river  could  be  seen 
rising,  rising. 

"Doalty,  come  into  the  house  widye!"  shouted 
Maura  The  Rosses,  who  was  already  inside. 

Doalty  went  in,  to  find  his  mother  with  her  boots 
off,  her  red  petticoat  tucked  up  to  her  knees,  and 
the  sleeves  of  her  blouse  thrust  up  to  her  shoulders. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  bottle  of  holy  water.  As 
Doalty  crossed  the  doorstep  she  flung  the  holy 
water  over  him,  then  over  herself. 

"May  God  save  us  from  this  flood!"  she  said, 
"and  protect  the  hay  .  .  .  and  ye,  Hughie  Beag, 
get  into  bed  there  and  don't  show  yer  nose  past  the 
door  till  the  draggin's  done !" 

"Must  go  down  the  river,"  said  Hughie,  clutch- 
ing hold  of  his  mother's  petticoat. 

"Get  to  bed  and  do  what  ye're  told !"  said  Maura 
The  Rosses,  giving  the  boy  a  skelp  with  the  flat 
of  her  hand. 

Catching  hold  of  a  rope  that  hung  from  the  rig- 


274  Glenmornan 

ging-beam,  Doalty  Gallagher,  followed  by  his 
mother  and  Teague,  rushed  out  and  made  his  way 
to  the  holm.  The  Owenawadda  was  now  flush  with 
its  highest  bank,  and  where  the  banks  lay  low  the 
river  was  sweeping  over  them,  on  to  the  meadows. 
The  glen  people  were  all  rushing  down  the  braes 
to  the  holms ;  a  few  were  already  dragging  the  hay 
back  from  the  flood.  Three  trampcocks,  on  Oiney 
Leahy's  Gubbin,  were  surrounded  by  water.  Up 
behind  the  Dermod's  house  the  stream  was  break- 
ing free  from  the  awlth  and  tramping  down  the 
fields  of  ripening  corn.  Sheila  Dermod  already 
down  by  the  river,  was  pulling  the  hay  back  from 
the  rising  waters.  Where  Maura  The  Rosses' 
holm  touched  the  river,  the  water  was  now  ankle 
deep. 

"The  ones  in  most  danger  first  the  ones  be  the 
brough !"  said  Maura  in  a  stern  voice  of  authority, 
pointing  at  the  hand-cocks  surrounded  by  water. 
She  was  carrying  a  wooden  pole,  a  hand-spaik  it 
was  called,  in  her  hand  and  Teague  carried  an- 
other. Bending  down  beside  a  hay  lump  she  raised 
one  side  of  it  and  Teague  shoved  his  pole  under  it. 
A  second  hand-spaik  was  placed  under  the  cock, 
parallel  with  the  first,  and  with  the  aid  of  these,  the 
mother  and  son  lifted  the  hay  and  carried  it  out  of 
harm's  way.  In  the  meantime,  Doalty  put  his  rope 
round  a  hand-cock,  slung  the  end  of  the  rope  over 
his  shoulder,  leant  forward  on  it  and  dragged  the 
hay  up  to  higher  reaches  of  the  holm. 

Norah  Gallagher,  who  had  been  to  the  village  on 
an  errand,  came  into  the  field  now. 


The  Flood  275 

"What  kept  ye  slouchin'  along  the  road,  when  ye 
saw  the  flood,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses  to  Norah. 
"Ye  should  have  been  back  an  hour  ago.  Don't 
stand  gapin'  there  and  the  flood  almost  over  the 
glen." 

"Well,  what'll  I  do?"  asked  Norah  helplessly. 
"I  have  nobody  to  help  me  and  I  can't  work  like 
Doalty." 

"G'over  and  help  Sheila,  if  ye  can't  see  anything 
to  do  here,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  who  never 
stopped  work  for  a  moment  while  shouting. 

Doalty  kept  hard  at  it,  doing  the  work  of  two 
men.  One  hand-cock  followed  another,  and  all 
were  piled  in  an  ungainly  huddle  up  near  the  road. 
Here  the  hay  would  be  comparatively  safe  for  if 
the  flood  rose  to  the  knoll  on  which  it  was  heaped, 
a  thing  which  it  seldom  did,  the  water  would  not 
have  the  strength  to  drag  it  into  the  river. 

But  the  water  continued  rising.  The  glen  was 
a  lake  and  in  many  places  the  houses  near  the  road 
were  surrounded  by  the  flood.  On  the  braes  the 
streams  were  washing  the  potato  patches  from  the 
rocks,  and  the  hills  were  slipping  down  to  the  bot- 
tom-lands. 

A  round,  dirty,  white  object,  washed  up  by  the 
river,  rested  against  a  hand-cock  which  Maura  The 
Rosses  was  just  raising  on  the  hand-spaiks. 

She  looked  at  it  for  a  second. 

"One  iv  Dennys  The  Drover's  sheep,"  she  said. 
"I  know  the  brand  on  the  horns.  I  hope  he  doesn't 
lose  many  iv  the  crathurs." 

She  was  waist-deep  in  the  water,  and  when  she 


276  Glenmornari 

stooped  the  red  petticoat  spread  out  over  the  water 
like  a  flat  mushroom.  But  all  the  time  nothing  es- 
caped her  attention,  she  had  an  eye  for  everything, 
even  the  doings  of  her  neighbours. 

"Now,  Doalty,  there's  a  han'-cock  behint  ye  and 
it'll  soon  be  goin',"  she  said.  "Put  the  rope  round 
it  and  pull  it  out!  .  .  .  Teague,  get  hold  iv  that 
spaik  and  don't  be  gapin'  like  a  scaldy*  .  .  . 
There's  Owen  Briney  comin'  down  from  the  brae 
to  help  Sheila  Dermod  with  her  hay.  It's  about 
time  too!  There's  Hughie  Beag  out  and  at  the 
road!  He'll  get  drowned!  I'll  give  him  such  a 
skelpin'  when  I  get  in  to  him  the  night !  And  look, 
Doalty!  There  is  one  iv  poor  Oiney's  trampcocks 
on  the  way  to  the  river.  God  help  him !" 

It  was  quite  true.  Oiney  had  three  trampcocks 
built  together  on  his  holm,  small,  stumpy  ones  they 
were,  containing  about  half  a  ton  of  hay  each.  One 
of  these,  caught  by  the  volume  of  the  flood,  was 
going  riverwards.  Oiney,  impotent,  in  the  face  of 
this  calamity,  was  watching  it,  as  it  drifted  away. 
Only  the  hat,  face  and  shoulders  of  the  old  man 
was  visible;  the  water  was  almost  reaching  his 
chin. 

Maura  The  Rosses,  as  she  went  through  the  wa- 
ter with  a  burden,  kept  her  eye  fixed  on  the  tramp- 
cock  floating  towards  the  river.  Suddenly  she  dis- 
appeared in  the  flood.  Doalty,  who  was  following, 
threw  down  his  rope  and  rushed  to  where  the  bub- 
bles were  rising  near  the  hand-cock,  which  the 
woman  had  just  been  carrying. 
*  Nestling. 


The  Flood  277 

"She's  done  for!    Drownded!"  shouted  Teague. 

But  Maura  The  Rosses  re-appeared  again,  splut- 
tering and  choking,  the  water  running  down  over 
her  hair,  which  unloosened,  straggled  out  across 
the  water.  Doalty  never  knew  that  his  mother  had 
such  long  hair.  It  would  have  reached  her  waist, 
and  even  yet,  it  was  not  turning  white. 

He  reached  down,  caught  her  by  the  arms  and 
pulled  her  up  on  the  holm.  She  had  fallen  into  a 
drain. 

Maura  The  Rosses  shook  her  head,  caught  her 
hair  between  her  hands  and  wrung  it.  Then,  not 
having  a  hairpin,  she  allowed  it  to  fall  down  her 
back.  Coughing  and  spluttering,  she  bent  down 
and  proceeded  with  her  work. 

"You  can  go  back  home  now,  mother,"  said 
Doalty.  "There  is  only  another  half  hour's  work 
and  then  all  will  be  finished.  Teague  and  myself 
can  do  the  rest  now." 

"I'll  help  for  just  a  wee  while  longer,"  said  the 
mother.  "Then  I'll  leave  it  to  yerself  and  Teague 
to  finish.  .  .  .  There !  Oiney's  trampcock  is  in  the 
river  now." 

The  trampcock  was  indeed  in  the  river  and  noth- 
ing was  visible,  but  the  solitary  horn  of  the  goat 
spinning  round  like  a  top.  Other  trampcocks  fol- 
lowed as  if  trying  a  race.  .  .  .  Another  sheep  was 
washed  in  on  the  holm  at  Doalty's  feet. 

"What's  the  brand  on  the  horn?"  Maura  The 
Rosses  called. 

"Drover  Dennys  again,"  shouted  Doalty  in  an- 
swer. 


278  Glenmornan 

At  the  end  of  another  half  hour  when  all  the 
hay  was  placed  in  safety  the  rain  ceased,  a  breeze 
blew  from  the  hills  and  the  sky  cleared.  Maura 
The  Rosses  went  back  home  and  Doalty  made  his 
way  across  the  fields  to  see  Oiney  Leahy.  On  the 
way  he  encountered  Owen  Briney. 

"Did  ye  see  Oiney's  trampcock?"  Owen  en- 
quired, smiling,  with  the  corners  of  his  lips  down. 

"I  saw  it  go  into  the  river,"  said  Doalty. 

"And  it  was  the  best  cock  iv  the  three,"  said 
Owen.  Previous  to  now  Owen  had  often  re- 
marked that  one  cock  was  the  spit  of  another  and 
neither  of  them  were  worth  looking  at. 

Doalty  spoke  to  Oiney  across  the  ditch,  both  men 
deep  in  the  water,  with  only  their  heads  and  shoul- 
ders showing. 

"I'm  sorry,  Oiney,  that  your  trampcock  has 
gone  away,"  said  Doalty  to  the  old  man. 

"Ah!  well  it  was  to  be,  I  suppose,"  said  Oiney, 
stroking  his  chin-whiskers.  "It  was  the  lightest 
one  that  went,  and  that  in  itself  is  some  comfort. 
.  .  .  The  floods  will  come  and  when  they  do,  there's 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  If  the  big  rock  that  caps 
the  water,  down  at  the  town  was  blown  up,  the 
river  would  have  a  freer  run  and  the  floods 
wouldn't  rise  so  high." 

Doalty  recalled  that  once,  when  he  was  a  little 
fellow,  the  blowing  up  of  this  rock  was  proposed. 
The  rock,  which  stood  in  the  river  bed,  down  by 
the  village,  checked  the  flow  of  water  in  floodtime. 

"But  why  don't  they  get  it  out  of  the  way  now?" 
said  Doalty.  "If  that  was  done  and  the  trees 


The  Flood  279 

rooted  out  from  either  bank,  the  floods  wouldn't 
rise  so  high.  If  all  the  men  in  the  glen,  whos£ 
farms  touch  the  river,  spent  a  week  at  the  work 
they  could  get  it  done  quite  easily." 

'  'Twas  spoken  about  iv  old,  but  what's  the  good 
iv  talk,"  said  Oiney.  "The  people  below  the  r.ock 
say  that  if  it  was  taken  out  iv  the  river  they'd  get 
flooded  out  iv  house  and  home.  The  river  was 
good  enough  for  the  people  that  went  before  us, 
they  say,  and  why  is  it  not  good  enough  for  us? 
Then,  below  us  here,  there's  Crania  Coolin's  holm 
that  sticks  out  across  the  river  and  it's  almost 
touching  Micky  Neddy's  holm  on  the  other  side. 
There  are  bushes  growing  on  both  lips  iv  land,  and 
between  them  the  river  has  no  flow  at  all.  But  will 
Grania  or  Micky  let  anybody  widen  it?  No  fear! 
They  make  a  penny  or  two,  be  sellin'  the  sally  rods 
that  grow  there,  and  they're  not  goin'  to  lose  the 
few  ha'pence  that  can  be  made  this  way,  in  order 
to  save  the  hay  iv  them  that's  further  up  the  glen 
than  themselves.  And  I  don't  blame  them,  for  they 
wouldn't  get  much  thanks  after  they  had  done  it." 

"It  looks  as  if  it's  going  to  dry  up,  now,"  said 
Doalty  as  he  clambered  up  on  top  of  a  ditch  that 
stood  beside  him.  "We'll  maybe  have  some  good 
weather  again." 

"Iv  coorse  we'll  have  lashin's  and  lavin's  iv  it," 
said  Oiney.  "I'll  bet  the  morrow  will  be  good.  The 
wind  is  comin'  from  the  east,  a  dry  quarter,  and 
God  is  good!  And  we'll  need  it,  if  it  keeps  up,  for 
the  corn  is  settin'  ripe  on  the  braes,  and  be  the  look 
iv  it,  the  crop  is  goin'  to  be  a  good  one  for  the  grain 


280  Glenmornan 

is  heavy  iv  head.  Never  saw  it  as  good  for  miny's 
a  year.  And  the  pratees  are  grand  too.  God  is 
still  watchin'  over  us  and  if  he  takes  away  from  us 
in  one  way  he  sends  us  back  seven-fold  in  another." 


IV 

That  evening,  when  darkness  had  all  but  fallen, 
Sheila  Dermod  came  down  through  the  awlth,  her 
cattle  in  front  of  her,  the  animals  sliddering  and 
stumbling  over  the  stones  which  the  torrents  had 
washed  from  the  hills  earlier  in  the  day.  The  flood 
on  the  braes  had  fallen  rapidly  when  the  rain, 
ceased,  but  a  dark  sheet  of  water  still  lay  on  the 
holms  and  the  river  could  be  heard  roaring,  as  it 
made  its  way  to  the  sea.  A  strong  breeze  was 
blowing  from  the  east  and  the  bushes  verging  the 
awlth  were  already  dry.  The  hazel-nuts  which 
ripen  with  the  corn,  hung  in  clusters  on  the 
branches,  and  Sheila,  who  had  pulled  a  number 
kept  cracking  them  between  her  white  teeth  and 
spitting  the  kernels  into  the  brook,  as  she  followed 
her  cows  to  the  byre. 

Suddenly  she  saw  Doalty  Gallagher,  sitting 
astride  an  ash,  which  projected  over  the  stream  and 
cutting  a  young  sapling  with  a  clasp-knife.  He  did 
not  look  round  as  the  girl  approached. 

"And  it's  here  ye  are,  Doalty  Gallagher!"  she 
said,  looking  up  at  him  and  spitting  the  nut,  which 
she  held  between  her  teeth,  into  the  rivulet.  "Ye're 
everywhere." 


The  Flood  281 

Doalty  glanced  at  the  girl,  a  look  of  feigned 
surprise  in  his  face.  He  had  been  watching  her 
through  the  bushes  for  the  last  five  minutes. 

"I've  just  come  up  to  cut  an  ash-plant  for  the 
next  fair,"  he  said.  "I  did  not  think  I'd  meet  you 
here,  Sheila." 

"Then  who  did  ye  think  ye'd  meet  here?"  she 
asked,  with  a  laugh,  enquiry  in  her  big  blue  eyes. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Sheila,  I  expected 
to  meet  you,"  he  confessed,  "I've  come  up  to  see 
you." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Sheila  looked 
down  at  a  cluster  of  nuts  which  she  held  in  her 
hand.  Selecting  one,  she  leant  back  a  little  as  if 
going  to  fling  it  up  to  Doalty. 

"Now,  catch  it  if  ye  can!"  she  called.  "I'm 
goin'  to  throw  it  up !" 

"Just  one  minute!"  said  the  young  man.  "Wait 
till  I  get  a  better  hold!" 

He  twined  his  legs  round  the  branch,  which  he 
gripped  with  his  left  hand.  Then  leaning  out- 
wards, he  held  his  right  hand  open,  fingers  out- 
stretched, and  waited  expectantly. 

"Throw!"  he  called. 

She  flung  the  nut  up.  Doalty  made  one  wild 
effort  to  catch  it,  missed,  and  almost  toppled  off 
.his  perch. 

"Ye  almost  were  comin'  down!"  laughed  the; 
girl. 

"Throw  another  one,"  said  Doalty. 

"No  fear,"  said  Sheila.  "I  don't  want  yer  deatK 
to  be  on  me  head." 


282  Glenmornan 

"Then  I'm  coming  down,  Sheila,"  said  Doalty,' 
scrambling  out  to  the  end  of  the  branch,  which 
bent  with  him  until  his  feet  touched  the  ground. 
Then  he  released  his  hold  and  the  branch  shot  up 
again.  He  turned  to  Sheila. 

"I've  come  up  to  see  you,"  he  said,  reaching  out 
and  clasping  her  hands. 

"But  ye  said  that  'twas  to  cut  a  stick  for  the  fair 
that  ye  came  up,"  said  the  girl  diffidently.  "Ye're 
the  one  for  lettin'  on." 

She  drew  her  hands  away  from  Doalty  as  she 
spoke,  and  stepped  backwards  into  the  stream.  The 
muddy  water  covered  her  bare  feet  and  played 
about  her  ankles.  She  looked  down  at  the  ground. 

"I've  come  up  to  see  you,  Sheila,"  Doalty  re- 
peated. "I  cannot  live  without  you.  My  eyes  fol- 
low you  all  day  and  I'm  thinking  of  you  all  night." 

"And  I  suppose  I'm  not  the  first  that  ye've  told 
the  same  story  to,"  said  the  girl,  the  slightest  note 
of  railery  in  her  voice.  "What  about  the  girls  that 
ye  have  been  talkin'  to,  beyont  the  wather?" 

"Who  has  been  telling  you  stories?"  Doalty  en- 
quired and  he  caught  the  girl's  hand  again. 

"I  was  just  told,"  said  Sheila. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Oh!  I  just  heard." 

"Well,  if  any  one  told  you  things  like  that,  it  was 
all  a  lie,"  said  Doalty,  as  he  seized  her  in  his  arms 
and  pressed  her  to  his  breast.  He  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  doing;  all  ideas  left  him  and  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  going  to  fall.  He  could  feel  her 
bosom  press  against  him,  her  tresses  brushing  his 


The  Flood  283 

lips.  She  leant  back  her  head  and  looked  up  at 
him  and  he  could  see  the  sparkle  of  her  eyes.  Her 
lips  moved,  as  if  she  were  going  to  speak  but  no 
words  came.  Doalty  trembled;  he  felt  his  heart- 
strings quiver,  his  will  weaken.  The  fresh  night, 
the  moist  odour  of  the  damp  soil,  the  penetrating 
fragrance  of  the  autumn,  the  soft,  yielding  young 
girl  in  his  arms,  excited  an  ecstasy  of  passion  in 
Doalty's  heart.  Almost  without  knowing  it  he 
pressed  his  hand  on  Sheila's  bosom.  She  shuddered 
but  clung  more  closely  to  him.  He  bent  down  and 
pressed  his  lips  against  hers. 

"It's  a  sin,  that,  what  ye're  doin',"  she  faltered. 

"Sin,"  Doalty  stammered.    "It's  no  sin;  it's  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  her  again,  then  released  her  from  his 
arms. 

"Your  feet  are  all  wet,  Sheila,"  he  said,  "Come 
up  on  the  bank." 

She  obeyed  meekly  and  stood  beside  him. 

"And  where  will  the  cows  be  now?"  she  en- 
quired. "They'll  be  all  over  the  glen." 

"Well,  what  does  it  matter?"  said  the  young 
man.  "You'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  trouble  about 
the  cattle  to-morrow,  and  the  day  afterwards. 
But  at  present  we'll  talk  of  something  else." 

"And  what  widye  be  wantin'  to  talk  about  now?" 
she  enquired,  edging  away  from  him. 

"About  love,"  said  Doalty.  "I've  told  you  often 
that  I  am  in  love  with  you  and  I  want  you  to  marry 
me  if  you  will.  Will  you,  Sheila?" 

"Are  you  in  fun  about  it?"  she  asked,  taking  a 
step  backwards. 


284  Glenmornan 

"I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  all  my  life," 
said  Doalty. 

"Cross  on  yer  neck,  then." 

Doalty  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  with  his  finger 
and  fixed  a  pair  of  serious  eyes  on  the  girl. 

"Tell  me,  now,"  he  enquired.  "Will  you  marry 
me?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  ...  sometime,"  said  the  girl. 
Now  that  she  was  free  from  his  embrace  she  had 
more  confidence  in  herself.  "Maybe  I'll  tell  ye 
the  morra  and  maybe  next  week.  ...  I  must  have 
time  to  think.  .  .  .  I'll  see  ye  at  Mass  the  morra 
and  then  I'll  tell  ye  ...  maybe." 

As  she  spoke  she  blushed  crimson,  but  still  kept 
edging  away.  Doalty  fixed  a  steady  look  on  her 
and  she  suddenly  winced,  turned  round  and  ran  off. 
His  eyes  followed  her  until  she  disappeared 
through  the  bushes,  but  she  did  not  turn  round 
once. 

The  young  man  stopped  where  he  was,  for  a  long 
time,  and  listened  to  the  cows  going  into  the  byre. 
But  he  did  not  hear  Sheila  speak.  From  the  dis- 
tance he  could  hear  the  sound  of  a  fiddle  playing 
"The  Moving  Bogs  of  Allen,"  and  he  knew  that 
Oiney  Leahy  was  seeking  solace  from  the  fiddle 
for  his  lost  trampcock. 


CHAPTER  XII 

READ  FROM   THE  ALTAR 

His  gnarled  fingers  against  his  hips, 
A  wee  black  dudheen  between  his  lips ; 
Bearded  and  wrinkled.  .  .  .  The  mart  is  full 
Of  the  herdsman's  sheep  and  the  mountain  wool- 
Woollen  wrapper  and  woollen  socks — 
Bawnagh-brockagh.    Keeper  of  flocks, 
Branded  and  ribbiged  wethers  and  ewes; 
A  man  of  substance  whom  every  one  knows, 
See  him  stand  in  the  market  town, 
Paying  in  guineas,  money  down. 
Ready  to  bargain  and  ready  to  spend, 
Or  stand  a  drink  to  a  drouthy  friend — 
A  man  that  his  neighbours  speak  about 
As  they  sit  at  the  bar  and  drink  their  stout, 
And  they  wish,  to  the  Man  Of  Flocks,  increase, 
Who  has  not  his  heart  in  the  penny  piece. 

— The  Mountainy  Man. 


DOALTY,  early  on  the  road  the  next  morn- 
ing, was  one  of  the  first  to  enter  the  chapel 
of  Greenanore.    The  morning  being  very 
hot  he  took  a  seat  near  the  door,  where  a  breeze 
blew  in  from  the  fields.    Sitting  there  he  watched 
the  congregation  file  in.    Those  who  had  furthest 
to  come,  were  the  first  to  enter.    The  big-boned  and 

285 


286  Glenmornan 

hairy  mountainy  men  tramped  in,  their  sticks  un- 
der their  arms;  their  barefooted  women  followed, 
their  perspiring  feet  leaving  impressions  of  toe  and 
heel  on  the  dry  floor  of  the  church.  One  of  the 
first  of  the  men  was  big  Hudagh  Murnagh,  a  man 
with  a  beard  like  a  besom,  full  of  money,  and  not.  a 
word  of  learning  in  his  head.  But  for  all  that  he 
was  very  astute  and  dealt  largely  in  sheep.  The 
mountains  were  white  with  his  wool.  He  came  up 
the  aisle  of  the  church,  took  a  seat  opposite  Doalty 
and  looked  round,  his  shrewd  eyes  taking  in  every- 
thing. Then,  spitting  on  the  floor,  he  knelt  down 
and  said  his  prayers. 

Next  to  come  was  Grania  Coolin,  her  gosling- 
grey  handkerchief  wrapped  tightly  round  her  head 
and  her  white  wisps  of  hair  hanging  down  over  her 
yellow  and  wrinkled  forehead.  When  she  came  op- 
posite Hudagh  Murnagh  she  knelt  on  the  floor, 
looked  at  the  altar,  and  made  the  triple  sign  of  the 
cross.  Getting  to  her  feet  again,  she  coughed  with 
the  hollow  cough  of  age,  and  went  in  and  sat  be- 
side Hudagh. 

Eileen  Kelly  and  Sheila  Dermod  came  up  the 
church  together.  Eileen  gave  Doalty  a  sidelong 
glance  as  she  passed  him,  and  a  little  roguish  smile 
played  round  her  three-cornered  lips.  Sheila,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  altar,  did  not  bestow  a  glance 
on  the  young  man.  She  seemed  to  be  saying  her 
prayers  as  she  walked. 

Heel-ball  took  a  seat  in  front  of  Doalty.  His 
bald  head,  rimmed  by  a  red  weal  made  by  the  hat, 
rose  to  a  point  and  shone  as  if  polished.  From  it 


Read  From  the  Altar  287 

a  light  vapour  was  rising,  as  if  Quigley's  very  sins 
were  evaporating  from  him  at  sight  of  the  altar. 
When  he  knelt  down,  he  blessed  himself  in  a  slow, 
calm,  authoritative  manner,  pressing  his  white 
flabby  hand  against  brow,  shoulder  and  chest,  with 
an  air  of  decision.  When  he  had  blest  himself,  he 
looked  round  at  the  congregation  as  much  as  to 
say:  "I've  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  correct 
and  proper  manner,  and  you  all  see  that."  The 
poor  of  the  congregation  knew  this  look  and  had 
often  seen  it  on  the  man's  face  when  he  robbed 
them  of  their  hard-earned  pence.  But  he  was  al- 
ways within  his  rights  and  nothing  could  be  said, 
for  as  gombeen  man,  behind  the  counter,  or  wor- 
shipper in  the  village  church,  he  did  everything  in 
the  correct  and  proper  manner.  All  his  actions 
being  fair  and  above  board,  he  was  a  man  removed 
from  reproach,  an  honest  business  man  and  a  credit 
to  his  church  and  congregation. 

His  three  daughters  came  in,  just  in  time  for  the 
prayers  before  Mass,  Gwendoline  leading,  her 
broad-brimmed  hat  well  down  over  her  face  and 
only  a  little  bit  of  the  chin  showing.  Her  bosom 
and  hips  were  padded,  and  she  wore  a  hobble  skirt, 
then  fashionable  with  the  quality  of  Greenanore, 
but  a  thing  of  the  past  in  larger  towns.  Gwendoline 
had  a  nickname  which  Rabelais,  were  he  a  Glen- 
mornan  man,  would  have  used  as  copy  in  his  book. 
This  nickname  was  given  to  Gwendoline,  when  she 
first  padded  her  hips  and  used  too  much  material 
in  the  process.  The  girl's  other  two  sisters  were 
named  Stephanette  and  Winifred.  They  dressed 


888  Glenmornan 

well,  used  rouge  for  their  cheeks,  but  their  clothes 
and  paint  did  not  make  up  for  their  lack  of  beauty. 
"It  doesn't  matter  what  they  put  on,  they'll  never 
be  but  what  God  made  them,"  Greenanore  often 
remarked,  when  referring  to  Heel-ball's  daughters. 
"A  worm  in  a  rose  is  always  a  worm." 

Then  there  was  Miss  Mooney,  the  doctor's 
daughter,  the  two  Miss  Rooneys,  children  of  the 
village  draper,  and  Miss  Boyle,  stumpy  and  low- 
set,  like  a  winter  trampcock,  who  was  a  school- 
mistress at  the  convent  school. 

These,  being  part  and  parcel  of  the  quality,  made 
the  whole  rounds  of  the  church  before  sitting  down. 
While  looking  for  comfortable  seats,  as  it  seemed, 
they  were  in  reality,  showing  off  their  finery  to  the 
congregation.  On  seeing  these  women,  one  would 
form  a  very  high  opinion  of  the  wealth  of  Greena- 
nore, but  nobody  would  believe  that  old  Hudagh 
Murnagh,  the  man,  with  the  beard  like  a  besom, 
who  was  spitting  on  the  floor,  was,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  two  or  three  others,  the  wealthiest  man  in 
the  building. 

Father  Devaney  officiated,  and  when  he  looked 
round  during  the  service  his  face  had  the  same 
stubborn  look  that  Doalty  had  noticed  there  on 
the  day  that  Breed  Dermod  was  buried.  But  the 
look  was  not  peculiar  to  any  occasion.  It  was  the 
habitual  look  of  the  man.  He  seemed  to  be  always 
ready  to  pounce  on  everybody  whom  he  saw.  His 
look  was  the  look  ecclesiastic  as  made  manifest  in 
the  face  of  the  gombeen  priest. 

When  the  first  gospel  was  read  a  collection  was 


Read  From  the  Altar  289 

made.  The  priest  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  altar 
and  waited  until  his  dues  were  lifted.  Doalty  no- 
ticed Grania  Coolin  put  a  halfpenny  in  the  plate. 
She  put  it  down  slily  amidst  the  copper  coins,  look- 
ing round  as  she  did  so.  The  old  woman  did  not 
want  her  neighbours  to  see  her  poor  contribution. 
Heel-ball  placed  a  pound-note  in  the  plate.  He 
pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket  with  surreptitious  fin- 
gers and  kept  the  collector  waiting  for  a  moment. 
The  congregation  looked  at  Heel-ball,  who,  know- 
ing that  all  eyes  were  on  him,  concealed  the  note  in 
his  hand,  allowing  only  one  end  to  show.  Placing  it 
on  the  plate  with  quiet  assurance,  he  covered  it  up 
with  pence  so  that  it  would  not  be  blown  away  as 
the  collector  made  the  rounds  of  the  church.  When 
the  plate  passed  to  the  next  man  there  was  only 
one  end  of  the  note,  peeping  out  from  beneath 
Grania  Coolin's  halfpenny,  to  be  seen.  But  that 
was  sufficient. 

When  the  collection  was  taken,  the  priest  got  up 
on  the  altar  steps  again  and  read  the  Epistle  and 
Gospel  of  the  day.  Then  he  gave  a  sermon.  Never 
before  had  the  priest  a  congregation  so  attentive, 
so  subdued.  The  worshippers  listened  in  breath- 
less silence.  Not  a  soul  coughed,  not  a  foot  stirred. 
Hudagh  Murnagh  ceased  spitting  on  the  floor.  A 
feather  might  be  heard  dropping  in  a  crock  of  milk. 


290  Glenmornan 


ii 

"My  dear  children,"  the  priest  began,  in  a  low, 
quiet  voice  of  studied  calmness,  which  the  threat- 
ening eyes,  that  seemed  fixed  on  every  soul  in  the 
congregation,  utterly  belied;  "I'm  goin'  to  speak 
this  day  on  a  matter  that  I  would  rather  not  have 
to  talk  about  here  in  the  holy  Church  iv  Greenanore 
to  the  good  men  and  women,  the  good  boys  and 
girls,  iv  the  parish.  Here,  to-day,  I  have  in  front 
iv  me  a  congregation  iv  good  Catholics,  as  religious 
and  God-fearing  as  any  ye  can  find  in  all  Ireland. 
And  when  that's  said,  what  more  can  I  say  ?  From 
the  earliest  days  the  Catholic  Church  has  found  its 
strongest  supporters  in  the  Irish  people.  The  Irish 
people  and  the  Catholic  Church  are  one  and  the 
same.  The  Danes  came  to  Ireland  iv  old  and  tried 
to  over-run  the  country,  but  priest  and  people  stood 
together  and  defeated  the  Dane  and  drove  him  into 
the  sea.  Then  the  Sassenach  came  and  put  the 
country  to  the  sword.  A  price  was  offered  for  the 
head  iv  a  priest  in  the  penal  days,  but  even  then, 
when  hunger  was  at  every  door  and  a  sword  at 
every  throat,  did  the  people  iv  Ireland  ever  sell  their 
priest  to  the  Saxon  ?  No  fear !  They  stood  by  him 
in  thick  and  thin,  and  he  stood  by  them,  tended  the 
dyin'  and  celebrated  Mass  on  the  lone  hills,  cov- 
ered with  snow,  in  the  darkest  hours  iv  stress  and 
danger.  But  that  was  in  the  old  times." 

The  priest's  voice  sank  as  he  said  this,  and  those 


Read  From  the  Altar  291 

in  the  back  seats  had  to  strain  their  ears  to  catch 
his  utterance. 

"But,  my  dear  children,  it  is  not  the  same  to- 
day," Devaney  continued,  his  voice  rising  in  a 
grand  burst  of  passion.  "The  priest  of  Ireland 
and  the  people  of  Ireland  are  in  danger  now,  and 
the  danger  does  not  come  from  abroad.  It  is  not 
the  Saxon  who  is  to  blame  now.  The  danger  is 
within,  like  a  worm  in  an  apple.  The  danger  is 
here,  in  the  parish,  aye,  and  here  in  this  very 
chapel,  where  all  iv  ye,  good  people,  come  to  say 
yer  prayers  and  make  yer  peace  with  God,  The 
devil  has  sent  his  minion  here/' 

The  priest  paused  and  the  beads  of  sweat  stood 
out  on  his  pink  forehead.  Doalty  Gallagher  felt 
that  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  himself. 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  mention  any  names,"  said  the 
priest.  "I'm  just  goin'  to  tell  ye  what  has  come  to 
me  notice.  A  young  man,  a  young  Irishman,  and 
God  forgive  me  for  callin'  him  an  Irishman !  came 
back  from  abroad,  where  he  has  been  at  work  writ- 
in'  for  the  papers.  That,  in  itself,  is  bad  enough, 
for  all  papers  away  abroad,  have,  for  their  first 
aim  and  object,  the  destruction  iv  the  holy  Roman 
Catholic  religion.  But  worse  was  to  follow,  for 
this  young  man  came  back  here  and  began  to  work 
on  his  mother's  farm.  As  if  he  wanted  to  help 
her!  Ah!  my  dearly  beloved  brethren,  Satan  has 
cunning  in  his  ways  and  no  one  can  do  enough  to 
keep  clear  from  him.  This  young  man  who  pre- 
tended to  work  on  his  mother's  farm  came  to 
Greenanore  with  another  purpose.  He  came  here 


292  Glenmornan 

to  make  all  ye  people  the  laughing  stock  iv  the 
whole,  wide  world.  He  listened  to  what  ye  said, 
he  saw  what  ye  did  at  wake,  fair  and  funeral,  and 
he  wrote  about  it  and  what  he  wrote  came  to  light 
in  papers  in  London.  I  read  it  all  in  black  and 
white  yesterday,  for  as  a  priest  I  must  read  the  pa- 
pers, a  thing  that  none  iv  ye  must  do,  bear  in  mind, 
for  ye  have  not  been  educated  up  to  it  and  ye  might 
fall  into  sin  if  ye  do  things  that  yer  priest  forbids 
ye  to  do.  Well,  this  young  man  wrote  about  the 
people  iv  the  parish  and  held  them  up  to  ridicule. 
He  told  how  one  iv  them,  an  old  man,  went  to 
Lough  Derg  to  do  penance  for  his  sins,  and  this 
man  returned  drunk.  He  doesn't  give  the  man's 
name  at  all,  not  even  the  name  iv  the  parish,  but 
it's  easy  seen  by  readin'  between  the  lines  that 
Greenanore  is  the  place  that  he  means.  And  the  lies 
that  he  tells  about  it !  Think  iv  one  iv  ye,  me  dear 
brethren,  goin'  to  Lough  Derg  and  comin'  back 
again,  drunk!  Ah!  no,  this  parish  is  far  above 
things  like  that!" 

The  priest  paused,  and  as  he  did  so,  Doalty  Gal- 
lagher got  to  his  feet  and  walked  out  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  church.  For  a  moment  he  stood,  facing 
the  altar ;  then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  out. 


in 


Maura  The  Rosses,  who  was  in  chapel,  heard 
Devaney's  sermon.  She  was  one  of  the  last  to 
leave  her  seat  when  the  service  came  to  an  end. 


Read  From  the  Altar  293 

She  had  no  eyes  for  anybody  at  the  gate  and  came 
up  the  glen  road  alone,  her  thoughts  on  her  own 
moral  excellence  and  the  iniquities  of  Doalty  her 
son.  "To  be  read  out  from  the  altar!"  she  said 
to  herself,  speaking  half  aloud.  "And  every  one 
in  the  place  listenin' !  As  if  I  wasn't  a  good  mother 
to  him,  and  kept  him  at  school,  and  got  him  to  learn 
the  cathechiz,  and  made  him  go  to  Mass  every  Sun- 
day, and  to  his  duties  at  laste  three  times  a  year, 
and  made  him  say  his  prayers  every  morn,  noon 
and  night.  But  now,  and  before  every  one,  he  has 
brought  shame  on  me  house  and  home.  And  it's 
known  to  every  one !"  Maura  The  Rosses  said.  "To 
every  one  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea!"  In 
Glenmornan,  as  in  many  other  parts  of  the  world, 
the  sin  made  public  is  much  worse  than  the  sin 
concealed. 

When  she  got  home  she  found  Doalty  there,  sit- 
ting on  a  chair  by  the  fire,  telling  stories  to  Hughie 
Beag,  who  was  sitting  on  the  flagged  floor,  with  his 
heels  in  the  ashes.  Maura  The  Rosses  looked  at 
Doalty  steadily  for  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  make 
certain  that  he  was  still  in  existence.  Anything 
might  happen  to  a  man  who  has  been  read  from  the 
altar.  He  might  wither  away,  go  mad,  cut  his  own 
throat.  If  he  did  any  of  these  things  the  woman 
would  not  be  surprised.  But  to  find  Doalty  sitting 
there,  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  telling  a  story  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  was  more  than  she  ex- 
pected. 

"And  ye're  here?"  she  enquired  in  a  voice  of 
wonderment. 


294  Glenmornan 

"Of  course  I'm  here,"  Doalty  replied.  "Where 
did  you  expect  me  to  be?" 

"Askin'  me  that!"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  tak- 
ing off  her  shawl  and  hanging  it  on  a  nail  behind 
the  half -open  door.  Then,  shaking  her  head,  she 
sat  down  on  a  stool  as  if  recognising  her  inability 
to  find  words  suitable  for  the  occasion.  Doalty 
glanced  at  his  mother.  Hughie  rubbed  his  tousled 
head  with  a  grubby  hand,  and  gazed  in  turn  at 
Doalty  and  his  mother. 

"The  old  priest  was  very  angry  to-day,"  Doalty 
commented  coolly.  "One  would  think  that  he, 
himself,  was  the  only  person  in  the  congregation 
free  from  sin.  I  suppose  he  meant  me  in  his 
sermon." 

"And  to  think  that  it  was  yerself  that  was  read 
out  from  the  altar,  Doalty,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses,  speaking  as  if  she  had  not  heard  his  re- 
mark. "Yerself,  iv  all  the  boys  in  the  glen,  that 
has  the  edication  and  the  good  upbringin'.  As  if 
I  didn't  do  all  I  could  for  ye  when  ye  were  wee, 
and  not  the  height  iv  two  turf.  And  now  ye  come 
home  and  this  is  the  way  that  ye  behave  in  the  eyes 
iv  the  glen.  Ye  should  be  ashamed  iv  yerself !" 

"But  I'm  not,"  said  Doalty,  with  the  red  blood 
of  anger  rising  in  his  cheeks.  "By  God !  if  I  hear 
anything  more  about  this  matter  I'll  go  down  and 
pull  the  damned  priest,  old  man  though  he  is,  out 
of  his  house  and  trounce  him  on  the  street.  To 
think  that  all  the  people  about  here  are  such  fools, 
as  to  suffer  a  tyrant  like  that  to  rule  over  them! 
.  .  .  Poor  unhappy  Ireland!  If  it's  not  the  land- 


Read  From  the  Altar  295 

lord  who  is  the  tyrant,  it's  the  gombeen  man,  and 
if  it's  not  the  gombeen  man  it's  the  priest.  .  .  . 
If  they  were  only  educated,  if  they  only  read  books, 
papers,  anything." 

"That's  what  has  put  yerself  wrong,"  said  Mau- 
ra The  Rosses,  with  an  air  of  finality.  "It  was 
the  readin'  and  the  books.  I  did  me  best  to  keep 
ye  from  the  readin'  but  ye  wouldn't  take  heed  to 
what  I  said.  .  .  .  Even  if  ye  stopped  away  from 
Glenmornan  and  done  as  ye're  doin'  now,  it  would 
be  bad  and  bad  enough ;  but  to  come  home  and  make 
yerself  the  laughin'  stock  iv  the  whole  glen.  But 
ye'll  go  away  now.  .  .  ." 

"No  fear !"  Doalty  replied.  "Do  you  think  that 
I'm  going  to  leave  here  because  that  old  fool  spoke 
about  me  to-day?" 

Maura  The  Rosses  looked  at  Hughie,  who  was 
now  sitting  on  the  kitchen  bed,  looking  at  his  toes 
and  listening  to  the  conversation. 

"Run  out,  Hughie,"  she  said  to  him,  "and  see  if 
the  cows  are  up  on  the  hill  and  don't  come  in  until 
I  call  ye." 

When  Hughie  disappeared  Maura  The  Rosses 
turned  to  Doalty. 

"Ye've  got  to  go,"  she  said  with  a  decided  nod 
of  her  head,  "back  to  where  ye've  been  for  the  last 
five  years,  and  I'll  not  mind  if  ye  never  put  yer  foot 
inside  this  door  again." 

As  she  spoke  she  fastened  a  button  of  her  blouse 
with  studied  care,  rose  to  her  feet,  and  went  out, 
leaving  Doalty  alone  in  the  house. 

The  blood  beat  like  a  hammer  in  his  head  and 


296  Glenmornaii 

his  heart  got  chill  as  a  stone.  He  gazed  at  the 
fire,  at  the  dying  turf  embers  and  the  little  red 
flames  licking  up  against  the  soot.  The  kettle  hang- 
ing from  the  crook  was  bubbling  merrily.  The 
ashes  littered  the  hearth,  and  by  the  hob  where 
Hughie  had  been  sitting  Doalty  could  see  the  im- 
pressions of  the  youngster's  heels.  .  .  .  But  every- 
thing was  shattered,  finished.  His  whole  little 
world  was  torn  up  by  the  roots,  leaving  nothing  to 
cling  to.  Sheila  Dermod,  Oiney  Leahy,  Dennys 
The  Drover,  ...  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  glen 
and  parish  would  treat  him  with  derision  and  con- 
tempt. The  simple-minded  peasantry  would  look 
on  him  as  a  turncoat,  a  Cath-breac,  a  renegade.  A 
man  at  variance  with  their  ideals,  the  people  would 
no  longer  endure  him.  To  the  children,  growing 
up,  he  would  be  spoken  of  in  the  same  breath  as 
Judas  Iscariot  and  Luther.  As  Doalty  thought  of 
Luther,  he  remembered  how  he  had  been  taught 
to  hate  the  memory  of  the  reformer  when  at  school. 
"Luther  went  straight  to  hell  when  he  died,"  the 
schoolmaster  used  to  say.  "Even  when  he  was 
dying  the  devil  was  standing  over  his  bed  so  that 
everybody  could  see  him."  And  Doalty  believed 
it  then,  and  hated  Luther. 

"I'll  not  mind  if  ye  never  put  yer  foot  inside 
this  door  again,"  Doalty  repeated,  with  a  bitter 
laugh.  A  momentary  rage  rose  like  a  whirlwind 
in  his  heart.  "That  hideous  priest !"  he  repeated. 
"How  he  hates  me,  and  how  he'll  chuckle  with  glee 
when  he  finds  that  he  has  chased  me  out  of  the 
place !  How  my  mother  fears  him !  .  .  .  And  what 


Read  From  the  Altar  297 

a  strange  eloquence  his  hatred  towards  me,  gave  to 
his  sermon  to-day !  .  .  .  Just  a  few  words  from  the 
altar  is  sufficient  and  I  will  have  to  clear  out  of  the 
glen.  The  people,  the  poor,  silly  people,  will  boy- 
cott me  now.  They'll  shun  me  on  the  roads,  pass 
me  by  in  silence  at  the  fairs,  cast  me  out.  .  .  .  But 
what's  to  be  done?"  he  asked  himself.  "Will  I  go 
and  see  her?" — he  meant  Sheila  Dermod — "or  will 
I  see  about  getting  a  car  to  take  me  to  the  station 
to-morrow  morning?" 

He  got  to  his  feet,  lit  a  cigarette  and  peeped  out 
through  the  door.  His  mother  was  up  on  the  brae 
and  Hughie  was  with  her.  She  was  to  all  appear- 
ances looking  after  the  cattle,  But  Doalty  had  never 
before  seen  her  show  such  interest  in  the  cattle  on 
a  Sunday  afternoon. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked  himself  again, 
hardly  knowing  what  he  was  saying.  "I  must  see 
Sheila.  That  is  certain.  I  yearn  for  the  girl  and 
I  cannot  live  without  her.  If  she  consents  to  marry 
me  I'll  stay  here,  it  doesn't  matter  what  happens. 

If  anybody  dares  to  say  anything,  I'll "  He 

clenched  his  fists  in  desperation,  but  did  not  finish 
the  sentence. 

"But  does  she  love  me?"  flashed  through  his 
mind.  "She  must!  She  does!  If  she  did  not,  her 
hand  would  not  press  mine  so  tightly  last  night. 
.  .  .  And  what  was  she  going  to  tell  me  to-day?" 

His  cigarette  had  gone  out.  He  lit  another, 
puffed  at  it  for  a  few  moments,  then  flung  it  in 
the  fire. 

"I'll  go  up  and  see  Sheila  to-night,"  he  said,  after 


298  Glenmornan 

a  few  moments'  silence.  He  spoke  in  tones  of  ob- 
stinate decision.  "It  doesn't  matter  what  happens 
I'll  go  and  see  her.  And  for  once  I'll  be  firm.  I'll 
make  her  answer  me." 

He  went  out  and  made  his  way  to  the  river, 
which  had  fallen  very  low  during  the  night.  The 
hollows  in  the  holms  were  rapidly  drying.  From 
the  hay,  which  had  been  dragged  the  day  before,  a 
thin  vapour  was  rising  into  the  air.  Oiney  Leahy's 
two  trampcocks  drooped  abjectly  towards  one  an- 
other, as  if  in  sorrow  for  the  one  which  had  gone 
away.  On  the  way  to  the  river  Doalty  met  Oiney, 
who  was  on  his  way  to  a  near  shop  for  provisions. 
The  old  man  looked  at  him  in  passing. 

"Good  day,  Oiney,"  said  Doalty  in  a  constrained 
voice. 

But  Oiney  did  not  reply.  He  raised  one  shoul- 
der, the  one  next  Doalty,  higher  than  the  other, 
held  his  head  up,  so  that  his  white  beard  stuck  out 
almost  straight,  and  passed  by  in  silence. 


IV 


In  the  evening  when  darkness  had  fallen  Doalty 
Gallagher  went  up  the  brae  to  see  Sheila  Dermod. 
The  girl  was  all  alone  in  the  house ;  her  aunt  Anna 
Ruagh  had  gone  to  Kelly's  house  to  borrow  a  wash- 
board for  the  morrow's  washing.  There  were  only 
two  wash-boards  in  the  townland  and  these  used  in 
turn  by  the  families  of  Stranameera. 

Sheila  was  baking  scones  on  the  pan,  that  hung 


Read  From  the  Altar  299 

from  the  crook  over  the  fire,  when  Doalty  entered. 
She  turned  round  with  a  start  when  she  heard  his 
foot  on  the  doorstep. 

"Good  evening,  Sheila/'  said  Doalty,  going  up  to 
where  she  was  standing  at  the  fire  and  stretching 
out  his  hand  to  the  girl.  But  apparently  she  did 
not  notice  the  outstretched  hand.  If  she  did,  she 
did  not  touch  it.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  crim- 
son, due,  no  doubt,  to  bending  over  the  hot  fire. 
The  lamp,  lit  on  the  brace,  showed  up  her  girlish 
features ;  and  her  blue  eyes,  fixed  on  Doalty,  seemed 
to  have  in  them  a  look  of  anger,  not  unmixed  with 
fear. 

For  a  moment  Doalty  stood  silent  and  looked  at 
his  hand. 

"You're  not  angry  with  me,  Sheila,  are  you?" 
he  asked,  letting  his  arm  drop  to  his  side. 

"Well,  what  are  you  wantin'  here  when  I'm  all 
alone?"  said  Sheila,  drawing  a  deep  breath  as  she 
spoke. 

Doalty  looked  at  the  girl,  and  recalled  the  empty 
days  that  he  had  passed  before  he  came  to  know 
her.  His  former  life  seemed  so  fatuous  and  lack- 
ing in  purpose,  and  now,  if  he  went  back  to  Lon- 
don, the  same  dull,  empty  and  useless  routine  would 
again  assert  its  sway  and  eat  up  the  meaningless 
and  foolish  hours  of  his  future  life. 

"You  know  very  well  what  I'm  wanting,"  he 
replied.  "Last  night  I  did  not  go  to  sleep  from 
thinking  of  you.  ...  I  love  you,  Sheila,  and  I 
want  you  to  be  my  wife.  I  want  you  to  marry  me, 
Sheila.  Tell  me  that  you  care  for  me." 


3OO  Glenmornan 

The  girl  edged  back  against  the  wall  and  fixed  a 
frightened  look  on  Doalty.  Her  cheeks  grew  very 
white,  her  lips  trembled.  Her  fingers  fumbled 
nervously  with  her  petticoat.  Doalty  was  seized 
with  a  mad,  exquisite  passion,  acute  and  terrible  in 
its  strength.  He  could  catch  her  in  his  arms  and 
squeeze  her,  crush  her  in  one  mad  ecstasy  of  love ! 
He  would  grip  her  white,  full  throat  with  his  hands, 
squeeze  it  until  she  yelled  with  pain.  She  was  the 
thing  which  he  desired,  which  his  whole  body 
yearned  for.  She  was  his,  his! 

"Leave  me  be,  Doalty  Gallagher,"  he  heard  her 
say  in  a  faltering  voice.  "I  don't  know  what  ye're 
talkin'  about.  I  don't  want  to  be  yer  wife,  not 
after  what  was  said  about  ye  be  the  priest  the  day. 
Go  'way,  Doalty  Gallagher,  and  leave  me  be  me- 
self,"  she  pleaded,  almost  on  the  point  of  tears 

Then  she  suddenly  seemed  to  pluck  up  courage 
and  an  angry  light  showed  in  her  eyes. 

"Comin'  here  when  I'm  all  alone !"  she  exclaimed, 
her  voice  rising  a  little.  "If  ye  had  decent  thoughts 
in  yer  head  ye  wouldn't  come  here  and  talk  about 
me  marryin'  ye,  when  ye  are  the  talk  iv  the  parish, 
because  ye're  makin'  fun  h  everybody  about  the 
place.  Ye're  not  everybody  to  do  as1  ye  like  here, 
Doalty  Gallagher !" 

As  she  said  this  her  eyebrows  contracted  firmly, 
her  lips  met  in  a  hard  straight  line.  Only  once  had 
Doalty  seen  a  similar  look,  and  that  was  on  Breed 
Dermod's  face,  when  the  old  woman  came  down  to 
Maura  The  Rosses'  house  a  few  months  before. 


Read  From  the  Altar  301 

The  dead  woman  was  now  looking  out  through 
Sheila  Dermod's  eyes. 

"That's  it,  Sheila  Dermod!  Show  the  dhirty. 
turncoat  what  ye  think  iv  him!" 

Doalty  turned  with  a  start  to  find  Owen  Briney 
behind  him.  The  man,  who  seemed  to  be  always 
hanging  round  the  door,  had  slunk  into  the  house 
when  Doalty  was  speaking  to  Sheila. 

Doalty,  filled  with  a  consciousness  of  his  own 
superiority,  fixed  a  look  of  scorn  on  Owen. 

"So  you  are  guardian  of  the  morals  of  the  young 
women  of  Glenmornan,  Owen?"  he  enquired  in  a 
deliberate  and  ironical  voice.  The  young  man's 
voice  was  low  and  almost  apologetic  and  he  smiled 
as  he  spoke.  But  behind  all  this  a  fire  was  burning, 
ready  to  break  forth  at  any  moment. 

"Clear  out,  ye  dirty  scapegoat!"  Owen  shouted. 
"Out  iv  the  door  with  ye,  and  out  iv  the  country  as 
well,  ye  turncoat." 

As  Owen  spoke  he  raised  his  fist  and  rushed  at 
'Doalty,  only  to  find  himself  lying  on  the  ground 
the  next  moment.  He  got  to  his  feet  again  and 
tried  to  close  with  the  young  man.  But  the  effort 
was  futile.  Doalty  seized  Owen's  right  arm  by  the 
wrist,  twisted  it  outwards  and  pressed  the  elbow 
inwards.  Owen  uttered  a  shriek  and  dropped  to 
the  floor  again. 

"Come  in!"  he  yelled.    "He's  killin'  me!" 

As  if  waiting  for  this  call,  half  a  dozen  men  ap- 
peared at  the  door.  All  had  their  caps  drawn 
down  over  their  eyes,  and  a  few  carried  ash-plants. 
Doalty  loosened  his  grip  on  Owen,  turned  round 


302  Glenmornan 

and  faced  them,  scornfully  indifferent  to  their  num- 
bers. He  was  just  in  time  to  dodge  a  blow  aimed 
at  him  by  Micky  Neddy.  A  mad  scramble  followed 
and  Doalty,  getting  pressed  back  against  the  wall, 
saw  big,  strong  hands  rising  and  hitting  him  on 
shoulder  and  chest.  But  somehow  the  blows  caused 
him  no  pain.  He  was  shoved  back  against  the 
wall,  and  kicked  on  the  shins  by  the  attackers.  He 
could  not  raise  his  arms.  .  .  . 

"That's  the  way,  Micky  Neddy!"  said  a  voice 
from  the  doorway.  "Go  for  him  and  tear  him  to 
pieces.  He's  only  one  agin  six  iv  ye  and  ye  have 
every  chance." 

All,  including  Doalty,  looked  towards  the  door, 
to  find  Dennys  The  Drover  standing  there,  one 
hand  in  his  coat  pocket  as  if  searching  for  a  match, 
the  scornful  smile  on  his  lips  more  pronounced 
than  ever. 

"Go  for  him,  and  tear  him  to  pieces,"  Drover 
Dennys  repeated,  and  stepping  towards  Micky 
Neddy,  he  caught  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck, 
swung  him  round  with  a  mighty  sweep,  and  shoved 
him  bodily  through  the  door.  Two  others  went 
out  in  a  similar  fashion  and  the  remainder  hurried 
away  like  whipped  dogs.  The  last  to  leave  was 
Owen  Briney  and  Dennys  helped  him  out  with  the 
iron  toe-plate  of  his  boot. 

"Well,  that's  settled,  anyway!"  said  Dennys  The 
Drover  in  a  most  casual  voice,  speaking,  as  if  the 
incident  in  which  he  had  just  taken  part  was  one  of 
every-day  occurrence.  "I  didn't  think  Micky  Neddy 
would  be  party  to  a  thing  like  that.  .  .  .  And 


Read  From  the  Altar  303 

Sheila  ?"  he  enquired,  turning  to  the  girl,  who  was 
still  standing  as  Doalty  had  left  her,  "how  are  ye 
keepin'?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  said  the  girl  in  a  petulant  voice, 
"after  all  this  happenin'  in  me  house!" 

"But  what  else  can  ye  expect  ?"  Dennys  enquired, 
sitting  down  on  a  chair  and  fixing  a  sly  glance  on 
Sheila,  "seein'  that  ye're  the  beauty  iv  Glenmornan, 
ye  must  expect  us  all  to  be  fightin'  after  ye." 

"Get  away  with  ye,"  said  the  girl,  and  her  eyelids 
dropped. 

"Isn't  that  the  truth,  Doalty?"  asked  Dennys, 
turning  round  to  the  other  man.  But  Doalty  had 
gone. 

"Where  did  he  go  to?"  asked  Dennys. 

"He's  just  gone  out,"  said  the  girl. 

"He  did  it  very  quiet,"  said  the  Drover.  "Well, 
tell  me  now,  how  all  the  row  started?"  he  asked. 

"  'Twas  like  this,"  said  Sheila.  "I  was  bakin' 
the  bread  .  .  .  it's  all  burned  now  .  .  .  when 
Doalty  Gallagher  came  in.  He  began  to  speak  silly 
about  all  sorts  iv  funny  things,  and  him  after  bein' 
read  from  the  altar.  He  wanted  to  ...  I  don't 
know  what  he  didn't  want  to  do,  but  just  then  Owen 
Briney  came  in." 

"But  what  was  Doalty  wantin'  to  do?"  Dennys 
enquired,  waving  the  account  of  Owen's  entry  aside 
as  a  matter  of  no  import 

"How  am  I  to  know  what  he  was  manin'  to  do?", 
said  the  girl  with  a  blush.  "But  anyway  Owen 
came  in  and  said  the  sharp  word  to  Doalty  Galla- 
gher, and  Doalty,  without  showin'  the  colour  iv 


304  Glenmornan 

temper,  gets  hold  iv  Owen  and  Owen  falls  to  the 
ground.  It  must  be  the  black  art  that  he  has,  to 
make  a  man  fall  without  hardly  touchin'  him  at 
all." 

"It's  what  he  learned  abroad,"  said  Dennys,  with 
an  air  of  authority.  "He  was  showin'  me  them 
tricks.  It's  rasslin',  the  kind  that's  done  in  Japan. 
.  .  .  But  I  would  have  give  a  lot  to  see  Owen 
Briney  go  to  the  floor  on  his  back,  the  dirty  ranny !" 

"But  I  don't  know  why  everybody's  down  on  poor 
Owen,"  said  the  girl.  "He's  very  good  to  me  and 
he's  always  ready  to  help  me  when  there's  any  work 
that's  needin'  doin'." 

"Then  he  must  have  somethin'  in  his  mind,"  said 
Dennys.  "Catch  him  doin'  anything  for  nothin'! 
If  he'd  give  ye  the  sweepin's  iv  his  fireplace  he'd 
want  it  back  in  gold.  .  .  .  But  ye  haven't  told  me 
yet  what  Doalty  wanted  to  do,  Sheila !  Was  it  that 
he  wanted  to  put  his  arms  round  ye  ?" 

"As  if  I'd  let  him,"  said  the  girl,  and  a  tremor 
played  round  her  lips. 

"Ye'll  never  let  anybody  play  with  ye,  Sheila," 
said  Dennys.  "Ye're  far  and  away  too  proud.  If 
the  lamp  was  out  I  wouldn't  be  sittin'  here,  lookin' 
at  ye,  when  I  could  be  doin'  somethin'  else,  I'm 
tellin'  ye." 

"What  would  ye  be  doin',  then?" 

"I'd  be  havin'  me  arms  about  ye  and  tellin'  ye 
things,"  said  Dennys. 

"If  ye'd  dare,"  said  Sheila  with  a  laugh. 

"I'd  dare  more  than  that,"  said  Dennys. 

"Yes,  ye  would,"  said  Sheila,  lifting  the  pan  from 


Read  From  the  Altar  305 

the  crook  and  placing  it  on  the  floor.  The  little 
scones  were  charred  and  blackened.  "But  it  will 
be  with  Norah  Gallagher  that  ye'll  dare  it,  Dennys 
Jhe  Drover." 

"But  I  haven't  a  notion  iv  Norah  Gallagher." 

"But  ye  have  no  notion  iv  anybody,"  said  the 
girl  in  a  laughing  voice.  "Ye  think  that  every  one 
is  dirt  under  yer  feet  be  the  way  ye  carry  on.  Run 
away  home  widye,  Dennys  The  Drover,"  she  com- 
manded, speaking  in  hurried  tones  with  her  hand 
over  her  ear.  "There's  Anna  Ruagh  comin'  back 
with  the  washin'  board." 

Dennys  got  to  his  feet,  went  up  to  Sheila  and 
chucked  her  under  the  chin  with  a  playful  finger. 

"I'm  goin'  away,"  he  said. 

"Well,  it's  time  anyway,"  was  the  girl's  reply  as 
she  looked  at  him.  "Ye're  always  about  every- 
where." 

"Ye've  splendid  eyes,  Sheila,"  said  Dennys,  look- 
ing tenderly  at  the  girl.  "I've  never  seen  eyes  as 
nice  as  yers.  .  .  .  But  that  doesn't  matter,  for  I'm 
goin'  away." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her  as  he  spoke,  and 
pressed  her  head  in  against  his  shoulder. 

"It's  a  funny  way  that  iv  goin'  away,"  said  the 
girl,  making  no  effort  to  free  herself. 

"Yes,  I'm  goin',"  Dennys  repeated  in  a  firm 
voice  as  if  he  had  been  contradicted.  "Away  out 
iv  the  country  altogether." 

"Glory  me !"  Sheila  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Yes,  out  iv  the  country,"  the  young  man  con- 
tinued, pressing  the  girl  with  a  strong  arm.  "I 


306  Glenmornan 

can't  live  here  where  there's  nothin'.  If  I  stay 
here  what  will  it  all  end  in  ?  I'll  have  me  bit  iv  land 
and  I'll  maybe  marry  and  get  old  and  never  have 
seen  anything.  That  is  not  the  life  for  a  young 
man.  See  Doalty  Gallagher!  He  has  been  away 
and  he  came  back,  and  he's  not  afraid  iv  any  one. 
Some  may  laugh  at  him,  but  what  does  he  care? 
He  has  the  laugh  iv  them  all  the  time.  He  doesn't 
care  for  anybody,  not  even  for  the  priest.  We're 
all  afraid  iv  the  priest  who  is  nothin'  more  or  less 
than  an  old  rascal.  But  Doalty !  See  the  way  he 
put  Owen  Briney  on  his  back  the  night,  and  that 
was  because  he  learned  how  to  do  things  like  that 
when  abroad.  And  he's  goin'  abroad  again ;  maybe 
the  morra  morn.  If  he  goes  I'll  be  with  him." 

"And  leave  us  all  here  and  forget  all  about  us," 
said  Sheila  with  an  angry  toss  of  her  chin.  She 
moved  away  from  Drover  Dennys  as  she  spoke. 

"Oh !  I'll  come  back  again,"  said  Dennys.  "Next 
year  maybe.  But  to  stay  here !  It's  only  men  like 
Owen  Briney  that  stay  here,  where  everything  is 
always  the  same  and  no  change.  .  .  .  Maybe  I'll 
not  see  ye  again,"  he  added,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  the  girl.  "So  I'll  say  good-bye  t'ye." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  as  he  pressed  it  very 
tightly  she  drew  it  away  again. 

"I  suppose  ye'll  be  up  here  the  morrow  night  just 
the  same;  that's  if  ye're  not  down  seein'  Norah 
.Gallagher." 


Read  From  the  Altar  307 


Dennys  went  to  the  door,  stood  there  for  a. mo- 
ment and  looked  back.  Then,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, he  went  out  into  the  night. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  called  at  the  house  of 
Maura  The  Rosses  to  find  Doalty  busy  at  work 
packing  all  his  belongings  into  a  trunk.  The  old 
woman  was  washing  the  supper  dishes.  She  had 
been  washing  them  for  the  last  half  hour,  though 
on  ordinary  occasions  the  job  was  completed  in  a 
space  of  five  minutes.  Her  thoughts  were  not  on 
her  work  now.  She  was  thinking  of  Doalty,  who 
had  been  read  from  the  altar,  and  who  was  going 
away  with  the  first  train  in  the  morning.  Maura 
The  Rosses,  in  great  distress,  was  finding  relief 
from  her  feelings  in  work. 

Norah  was  helping  Doalty  at  the  packing,  Kitty 
was  learning  her  lessons  for  the  school  in  the  morn- 
ing, Hughie  Beag  was  in  bed,  still  awake,  but  wait- 
ing for  his  story.  Teague  had  gone  to  Greenanore 
to  order  a  car  to  take  Doalty  to  the  station  at  dawn. 

"Good  night  t'ye,  Maura  The  Rosses,"  said  Den- 
nys The  Drover,  when  he  entered.  (Glenmornan 
people  know  no  afternoon.  Evening  with  them 
starts  at  noon  and  finishes  at  dusk.) 

"Good  night,  Dennys  The  Drover,"  said  Maura 
The  Rosses  with  a  sigh. 

Hughie  Beag  looked  from  under  the  bedclothes 
and  fixed  his  bright  eyes  on  the  visitor. 

"Dover  Denny!"  he  called. 


308  Glenmornan 

"What  are  ye  sayin',  ye  vagabone?"  said  the 
Drover,  going  up  to  the  bed. 

"Bought  a  bull  de  day?"  Hughie  asked. 

"I  did,"  said  the  Drover.  "A  big  bull  with  six 
horns  and  I've  left  it  outside.  If  ye  don't  go  to 
sleep  at  once  the  bull  will  come  in  and  take  ye  away 
on  its  horns." 

"Will  de  bull  take  Doalty  'way?" 

"It  will." 

"And  Teague?" 

"It  will." 

"Can't  take  Teague  'way,"  said  Hughie  with  a 
chuckle.  "Teague  'way  down  de  town  for  car  for 
Doalty.  Priest  read  Doalty  from  altar  de  day  and 
Doalty's  goinj  way." 

"Now  get  off  to  sleep,"  said  Dennys  The  Drover. 
"If  you  don't  the  bogey  man  will  come  down  the 
chimney  for  ye." 

"Me  don't  care  for  bogey  man,"  said  the  little 
boy.  "Bogey  man  will  take  oo;  not  me,  cos  I  say 
me  prayers.  Doalty  not  say  prayers." 

"Hughie,  get  a  sleep  on  ye,"  said  Maura  The 
Rosses.  "Ye're  always  talkin'." 

Teague  came  in  at  that  moment. 

"What  time  will  the  car  be  here  in  the  morning?" 
Doalty  enquired. 

These  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken  since 
Dennys  The  Drover  came  in.  Teague  stammered, 
blushed,  and  looked  confused. 

"I  couldn't  get  a  car,"  he  said.  "Micky  Ronan's 
horses  are  mostly  all  lame,  and  the  other  cars  in 
Greenanore  are  wanted  be  other  people." 


Read  From  the  Altar  309 

"So  I  can't  get  a  car  on  account  of  what  the  priest 
said  this  morning,"  said  Doalty  bitterly.  "But  it 
doesn't  matter.  I'll  carry  my  box  on  my  shoulder 
and  I'll  walk  down  to  the  station." 

"I'll  help  ye,"  said  Dennys  The  Drover.  "I'm 
goin'  to  the  station  meself." 

"Don't  trouble  to  come  on  my  account,"  said 
Doalty.  "Teague  will  help  me  down." 

"But  I'm  goin'  away,"  said  Dennys  The  Drover, 
fumbling  nervously  with  his  pocket.  "I'm  leavin' 
this  place  for  I'm  sick  iv  it.  I  can't  stand  it,  for 
it's  so  backward  like.  All  that  people  do  here  is  to 
grow  old  and  die.  It's  only  a  place  for  sick  people 
and  old  people.  .  .  .  Not  the  place  at  all  for  us 
young  fellows.  I  should  have  been  out  of  it  ages 
ago." 

"But  yer  mother  and  yer  sister,  Dennys  The 
Drover,"  said  Maura  The  Rosses,  glad  of  a  topic 
that  would  make  her  forget  her  own  troubles. 
"What  will  they  do,  not  havin'  any  one  to  help 
them  with  the  farm?" 

"It's  not  much  help  that  I  give  them,  except  in 
the  money  that  I  bring  them,"  said  Dennys  The 
Drover.  "Whether  I'm  here  or  away  they'll  just 
work  the  same,  for  they  can't  help  it.  But  I'm 
goin'  out  into  the  world  to  see  what  it's  like.  I'll 
be  a  sailor,  maybe.  .  .  .  Anyway  I'll  go  to  London 
town  with  Doalty  and  then  I'll  have  a  look  round 
me.  Ye  don't  mind  if  I  go  with  ye?"  asked  the 
young  man,  turning  to  Doalty,  who  was  tying  up 
his  trunk. 

"I'll  be  delighted,"  said  Doalty. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


A   LETTER  FROM    HOME 

The  winds  come  soft  of  an  evening  o'er  the  fields  of 

golden  grain, 
And  good  sharp  scythes  will  cut  the  corn  ere  we  come 

back  again — 
The   village   girls  will   tend  the   grain   and  mill   the 

Autumn  yield, 

While  we  are  out  on  other  work  upon  another  field. 

— Soldier  Songs. 


DENNYS  The  Drover's  sister,  Rose  Dar- 
roch,  was  a  big-boned,  dark-haired  girl, 
of  terrific  vitality.  Glenmornan  nick- 
named her  Rosha  Dhu  (Black  Rose).  Being 
strong  and  energetic,  the  girl  was  a  grand  hand  at 
hard  work,  but  she  was  nothing  to  notice  at  a 
dance.  In  fact,  Rosha  was  not  at  all  good-looking 
and  no  Glenmornan  boy  ever  accompanied  her 
home  from  an  airnall.  She  was  one  of  those  simple 
souls  who  lack  all  claims  to  personality.  When  a 
man  met  her,  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  away  from 
her;  when  he  left  her  company  he  forgot  her. 
There  are  many  people  like  Rosha  in  the  world, 
women  for  whom  no  man  would  yearn,  for  whom 
no  man  would  sin,  and  against  whom,  no  member 
310 


A  Letter  from  Home  311 

of  their  own  sex  would  entertain  any  feelings  of 
envy. 

When  in  Ireland  Doalty  Gallagher  met  her  sev- 
eral times ;  and  when  he  left  the  country  he  forgot 
her,  an  easy  matter. 

But  he  became  conscious  of  her  existence  again, 
two  years  after  the  events  described  in  the  last 
chapter.  It  was  in  the  early  summer  of  1915  that 
an  orderly  handed  a  letter  and  a  newspaper  to 
Lieutenant  Gallagher,  D.S.O.,  who  was  sitting  in 
a  dug-out  in  the  Flanders  firing-line.  The  news- 
paper came  from  Lady  Ronan  and  contained  an 
account  of  her  daughter's  marriage  to  the  editor 
under  which  Doalty  served  his  first  years  of  jour- 
nalism. The  letter  was  from  Rosha,  the  sister  of 
Drover  Dennys.  Sitting  on  the  firestep,  where 
the  light  was  good,  Doalty  read  it.  It  ran: 


II 

"STRANAMEERA, 

"GREENANORE, 

"Co.  DONEGAL. 
"DEAR  MR.  DOALTY  GALLAGHER, 

"A  line  to  let  you  know  we  are  well,  hopin'  yourself  the 
same.  I  must  say  that  you  are  a  very  nice  gentleman  not 
to  forget  us.  My  mother  would  write  to  you  only  she 
hasn't  the  learning,  for  she  was  never  at  the  school.  The 
two  of  us  is  broken-hearted  since  the  War  Office  wrot  to  us 
and  said  that  poor  Dennys  was  killed,  and  mother  says 
that  nobody  knows  what  black  war  is  as  much  as  people 
that  is  left  alone  with  nobody  to  help  them  and  them  that 
used  to  help  them  killed  and  ded.  I  can't  help  thinkin  when 


312  Glenmornan 

I'm  be  myself  that  if  Sheila  Dermod  had  taken  Dennys 
he  would  be  here  with  us  still,  though  for  myself  I  dont 
like  Sheila  Dermod.  She  is  almost  one  of  the  lowest  of 
the  low  and  I  would  be  ashamed  off  my  life  if  our  Dennys 
had  married  her  and  him  such  a  handsome  boy  that  could 
have  any  of  the  girls  in  the  place.  Even  the  town  girls 
were  lookin  at  him  when  he  went  in  there  on  a  fair  day. 

"My  mother  dose  not  know  what  was  the  reason  Dennys 
went  away  to  the  black  war  when  he  had  his  farm  at 
home  and  nobody  to  say  a  word  against  him,  but  she  thinks 
that  he  must  have  a  terrible  pain  when  he  was  dying,  and 
I  suppose  there  was  no  priest  to  look  at  him  and  give  him 
forgiveness  for  his  sins.  I  can  hardly  live  at  home  without 
him  and  he  was  so  good  to  me,  and  he  always  bought  me 
pink  and  green  ribons  from  the  fair  when  he  came  home 
at  night.  It's  an  awful  thing  to  die  at  the  war  with  not  one 
days  sickness  so  that  you  can  prepare  for  deth.  To  go 
away  just  like  a  leaf  from  a  tree  in  a  big  wind  is  a  afful 
thing.  My  mother  is  hart-broke  over  poor  beloved  Dennys, 
but  she  trusts  in  God  that  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  and  this  life 
is  very  short  and  full  of  trouble.  I  have  to  console  hen 
If  I  did  not  she  would  die  off  greef.  She  is  always  saying 
that  she  has  nothing  more  to  live  for  in  this  dark  world, 
and  that  it  can  do  nothing  more  to  her  than  it  has  done  al- 
redy.  I  hope  you  are  keepon  alright,  but  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  are  for  you  always  have  the  greatest  luck  and  was 
able  to  get  on  so  well  in  the  world.  We  have  got  very  hard 
work  to  do  on  the  farm  now,  and  we  must  do  the  best  we 
can.  We  did  not  think  once  that  we  would  be  lef  here 
alone,  but  people  don't  know  what  the  have  to  come  thru 
in  this  world.  I  hope  that  after  the  war  you  will  come 
back  to  the  glen  again.  Poor  Dennys  thought  a  lot  of  you 
and  he  was  always  saying  that  you  were  the  nicest  man 
that  ever  came  back  to  the  glen  from  forrin  parts,  for  you 
were  just  as  simple-minded  as  one  of  ourselves  and  never 
put  on  airs  like  a  shopboy  that  has  nothin'  on  him  but  a 
white  collar  and  wouldn't  take  off  his  coat  to  do  a  hand's 
turn  on  his  own  people's  farm. 


A  Letter  from  Home  313 

"Things  are  much  the  same  as  when  you  left  here  but 
a  lot  of  men  and  women  died.  God  rest  Crania  Coolin  for 
she  is  ded  and  her  wake  was  a  poor  one,  and  at  the  grave 
the  offerin's  was  only  a  bit  over  three  pound  ten.  Old 
Mister  Quigley  is  dead  to,  and  he  left  the  bulk  of  his  mony 
to  the  church  for  he  was  full  of  gold.  His  people  wanted 
the  money  and  they  had  a  lawsoot  with  the  church,  and  it's 
not  settled  yet.  I  think  for  myself  that  people  sib  to  a  ded 
man  should  be  give  the  money  and  not  the  preests.  All  the 
young  people  think  the  same,  but  the  old  people  think  that 
nobody  should  go  to  law  with  the  church.  .  .  .  Father 
Devaney  is  ded,  and  a  good  job  too,  for  nobody  cared  very 
much  for  the  man.  You  should  hear  the  countrey  boys 
talking  about  him  and  saying  that  he  was  not  worthy  of  his 
coat  He  met  his  deth  in  a  strange  way.  He  was  at  a 
dance  in  the  town,  and  this  was  a  dance  give  by  the  quality 
and  all  the  peeple  with  money  was  at  it  as  well  as  the  priest, 
him  that  wouldnt  allow  the  countrey  boys  to  have  dances 
in  their  own  house.  But  when  the  quality  were  having  a 
dance  it  didnt  matter.  None  of  the  countrey  boys  were  al- 
lowed into  the  dance,  but  it  was  such  a  grand  dance  that 
the  preest  himself  went  with  his  sister.  Well,  it  was  a 
night  of  big  snow  and  the  countrey  boys  went  down  to  the 
town  and  the  would  not  be  allowed  in,  but  had  to  stand  out- 
side and  freez,  so  the  picked  up  snoballs  and  flung  them 
thru  the  window  of  the  market  hall  where  the  dance  was. 
Then  the  priest  came  out  with  his  stick  and  chased  them 
away  with  a  stick.  So  the  ran  off.  He  followed  them  for 
a  bit  and  the  somehow  got  angry  and  turned  on  him  and 
began  to  throw  snoballs  at  him.  The  knocked  his  hat  off, 
thru  the  snow  down  his  back  and  sent  him  running  back. 
As  he  was  going  into  the  hall  again  he  fell  and  the  boys  cov- 
ered him  up  with  snow.  When  he  got  in  he  was  white  with 
fright  for  he  thought  that  the  were  going  to  kill  him.  Next 
day  he  had  a  bad  cold  and  he  died  from  it.  The  war  is 
doing  a  lot  of  good  for  the  glen  one  way  and  another,  and 
them  that  has  beasts  bringing  up  now  are  getting  no  end  of 
money. 


314  Glenmornan 

"Your  mother  is  well  and  she  has  three  cows  coming 
come  Bonfires  night  next.  Sheila  Dermod  is  marrid  now 
to  Owen  Briney  and  the  to  farms  are  made  into  one.  The 
have  to  servant  boys  and  the  make  them  to  work  for 
Sheila  is  very  like  her  mother  that's  ded  god  rest  her,  and 
always  tries  to  have  a  white  shilling  for  her  sixpence.  Also 
Eileen  Kelly  is  married  to  Micky  Neddy. 

"Oincy  Leahy  is  still  living  but  he  has  the  notions  now 
and  is  more  fond  of  the  drink  than  ever  he  was.  He  is 
always  forgetin  things,  and  he  can  be  seen  every  morning 
out  in  the  park  under  the  house  lookin  for  the  pipes  that  he 
put  under  the  ground.  .  .  . 

"Your  obeedin  servant, 

"Miss  ROSIE  DARROCH. 

"Send  me  a  line  when  you  get  this  at  the  war  and  you'll 
find  the  address  at  the  top  of  the  leter.  May,  1915." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  444 


UCSOUTHE 


000033164     5 


